


The Mirror World

by wtfkovah



Series: Gentleman Hunter Lee Jihoon (Seungcheol helps somewhat) [2]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Cannibalism, Child Death, Creepy, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Historical Fantasy, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Original Mythology, Protectiveness, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:07:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26327608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfkovah/pseuds/wtfkovah
Summary: Oh Lord—Seungcheol despairs at his life.It seems no matter how hard Jihoon tries to blend in, he still sticks out like a black cat on snow. And in a place like this, someone’s going to want to fuck him or kill him before they conclude their business. Maybe both.
Relationships: Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Lee Jihoon | Woozi
Series: Gentleman Hunter Lee Jihoon (Seungcheol helps somewhat) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873816
Comments: 35
Kudos: 219





	The Mirror World

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist:  
> [Johannes Brahms - Hungarian Dance No. 5](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3X9LvC9WkkQ)  
> [Dark Piano-Liar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6IrJzEQLKHE)  
> [Come Little Children-Music Box Version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y2RQ_nDW5ZQ)  
> [Dark Piano-The Tall Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-PeEfMP-6wk)  
> [Once Upon a December - Ethereal Remix](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZ6buLNIgs8)  
> [Schubert - Serenade](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0bjB-IWEYI0)  
> [Prokofiev-Cinderella Suite-Cinderella's Waltz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YOV7yWEv54o)  
> [Prokofiev - Peter And The Wolf March](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ctsWdUaHsHM)

Seungcheol had never really considered taking on an assistant before.

Independence was familiar territory for a Hunter, even when he was just starting out, still wet behind the ears, Seungcheol preferred to work on his own. It had seemed better that way, without another person's opinion to consider, without another person dragging him down. And in all fairness, he had never expected to _find_ anyone suitable for the position. Any candidate would need to be young, to have time to learn, and tough, of course, to deal with all the strangeness they would undoubtedly face, and clever, because Seungcheol really hated repeating himself. And Seungcheol would have to be comfortable with them, which was the most important thing really. He would be solely responsible for the lad after all, and if they were to spend so much time together, he wouldn’t want someone who would drive him up the wall.

It was an exhaustive list of requirements, and improbable that any one person could meet them all, so Seungcheol had promptly put the notion out of his mind when Namjoon first suggested it.

Then, he met _Jihoon_.

The man was _gorgeous_ , but that wasn’t the _only_ appeal of course. When Seungcheol first set eyes on him, deep down he felt a flicker of memory, like a dolphin rising out of the sea depths or a moth emerging from its cocoon. It was a feeling that was there and then gone again in an instant, but Seungcheol was left with an unshakable knowledge that this man was important somehow. Special, even.

And Jihoon has proven him right, time and time again.

He’s resilient, and confident, and impossibly clever, if still a bit reckless and naïve—young in a way Seungcheol can’t remember ever being. His brain works under the assumption that there’s always a solution—maybe not a pleasant one, or even a good one, but _something_ —and Seungcheol always feels better with Jihoon at his side.

If there’s a way out of a particular predicament, Jihoon _will_ find it.

And, well, yes—okay—there’s no denying the man is lovely to look at. Seungcheol couldn’t help noticing his good looks, of course, in the way he’d notice anyone’s. But there is something more there than the virtues of youth and symmetry—it’s the way Jihoon lights up when he talks about his butterflies, or when he discovers something new about a case they’re working on, that glorious smile. Or the habit he has of wandering around the room in bare feet, collar gaping and sloping down over one shoulder. 

Seungcheol doesn't know many people like that, sincere and carefree and utterly unpretentious. When he thinks about the way Jihoon took to life on the road, and how he treats everyone he meets, whether it be beggar or merchant in the same polite respect, he can't believe that he'd been taken in by his fashionable cravats, perfectly styled hair, and good posture, believing him to be as pompous as the rest of their class.

But for all Jihoon’s practicality and sharp, well-ordered thoughts, he still strikes Seungcheol as... not weak, precisely, and certainly not as any sort of tourist—nobody who chooses to follow in a Hunter’s footsteps could be considered weak. But there’s something innocent about him all the same. Something fresh and unsullied, something _sweet_ that gives Seungcheol the damnedest impulse to lock him up in a room and shoot anything that comes near him.

It’s an impulse that might have something to do with the way that Jihoon seems to, unwittingly and _repeatedly_ , injure himself.

Honestly—the man can’t even seem to walk across the room without injuring himself in some ridiculous way.

“Please, hurry Seungcheol. It hurts terribly.”

“Shh, now—relax.” Seungcheol says, nudging a stool towards the foot of the bed.

There’s already a basin of warm water at his feet, along with stacks of gauze and fresh bandages, and there’s a lit candle on the small table to provide light and allow him to sterilise his tools. All that’s left are the tools themselves, but Seungcheol can only determine which ones he will need _after_ he examines the injury.

A feat he could barely manage when Jihoon was writhing on the floor in ‘agony’.

Dropping into his seat, Seungcheol spreads out his roll of surgical instruments on the table and reaches for Jihoon’s ankle, holding it firmly against his knee.

Jihoon averts his gaze. His sniffling quiets a little, but his fingers curl into the pillow under his head, and a muscle in his jaw jumps under the skin.

Seungcheol can’t see anything—no swelling, no obvious puncture wound—but he focuses his attention on the small foot in his hand anyway, a much safer vista then the slim pale leg it’s attached to, or the shapely thighs splayed out on the bed in front of him.

Jihoon has taken to lounging about in nothing but his oversized shirts like he doesn’t expect Seungcheol to _look_. Like he’s some kind of _Saint_ , free of earthly desires.

Seungcheol is no Saint, but for once he manages to school his focus, feeling across the bare skin with his thumb, searching for a tell-tale bump or protrusion, something to explain this level of hysterics. There’s nothing there, except Jihoon jerks suddenly and hisses when his thumb moves over the top of his foot.

Squinting, Seungcheol can just about make out the smallest wooden splinter. The tiniest splinter of all splinters buried under the skin there. It’s hardly big enough to be causing considerable pain, but Jihoon yelps when he presses the area again, so that must be it. 

Suddenly the mounds of gauze and bandages seem like a hilarious overreaction, but he honestly expected the injury to be, well—more serious. 

Running a scalpel over the open flame, Seungcheol steadies his hand and makes the smallest incision near where the splinter ends, then applying a little pressure, eases it out. It’s all done in a matter of seconds, and there’s not a drop of blood spilled.

Easing back with the splinter on the edge of the scalpel, Seungcheol stifles a smile, “All done.”

When Jihoon blinks his eyes open, there are tears caught on his long dark lashes.

“What—really? Let me see,” He says, pushing himself up, thighs spreading wide around Seungcheol’s knees as he scoots to the edge of the bed. He takes one look at the splinter and scrunches up his nose. “Is that all it was? A _splinter_?”

Seungcheol carefully keeps his voice free of any amusement. “Apparently so.”

Jihoon shifts, embarrassed and uneasy, plucking at the bedcover with a hand. “It..it didn’t _feel_ that small when I was walking on it. It felt…more _substantial_. It really hurt.”

Seungcheol almost snickers, but catches himself in time, “Yes well, you do have very tiny feet. Such a small splinter must feel like a great big stake when it’s in your foot.”

Jihoon blinks at him, then looks down, the faintest hint of colour rising in his cheeks

“Do you want me to bandage it?” Seungcheol asks, as much to fill the silence as anything else, trying not to _stare_.

This time Jihoon’s face turns sour, like a baby trying its first lemon. “I hardly think _that’s_ necessary.”

“Are you sure? If you squint and lean in, you can see the _tiniest_ speck of blood.” Seungcheol teases, without rancour.

Jihoon’s lips thin into an annoyed line and Seungcheol privately marvels at his ability to pack so much irritation and disdain into a single look. Their time travelling together may have taken the edge off his arrogance, tamed his stubborn streak, but he still riles so easily. And so _beautifully_ too.

_Gorgeous_ , Seungcheol thinks, and then shakes the thought away like he has a hundred times before.

The chair legs grate against the floorboards as he stands abruptly, moving over to the couch to fetch his jacket.

“Where are you going?” Jihoon asks, brows furrowing.

Seungcheol is sure there's a sensible answer to that. Somewhere. But it’s lost briefly in the stutter of his heartbeat as Jihoon stretches out on the bed. Something about the way he moves his body becomes more deliberate, more careful, sensual somehow. Seungcheol swallows. With so much lovely, smooth skin on display, he can feel the blush climb up his neck.

“Out for a bit,” He grunts, running a restless hand through his hair. “I need to take a stroll. Gather some supplies before the next job.”

“Wait a moment, I will dress and come with you.” Jihoon yawns, giving his body a little twisting stretch.

The sweet little wriggle of movement rucks his shirt up even _higher_ , makes Seungcheol heart leap, and fuck it all, this is _torture_.

“No need.” Seungcheol sighs, both irritated and touched by the man’s complete disregard for every single wall he tries to throw up between them. “Just give me a list and I’ll collect what I can. You need to remain here and rest your foot.”

Jihoon props his head up on an elbow and gives him a strange look, eyebrows creased as though he is pondering a particularly vexing problem. He opens his mouth, as if to protest, then seems to think better of it. Scooting off the bed instead to fetch a small slip of paper from his desk and hands it over.

Seungcheol doesn’t even bother to check it, he just shoves it into his pocket steps past him and into the hallway, down to the street and away as fast as his feet will take him, the air cool and sharp on his face. Because he’s afraid of what he’ll do, if he has to keep looking at Jihoon’s mouth and wondering what it would be like to kiss him.

* * *

Watching Seungcheol amble his way down the street from the bedroom window, Jihoon feels a wave of frustration wash over him.

This _thing_ between them has only gotten worse with time. Every new understanding, every misstep, every moment of eye contact held a beat too long. They have become an exercise in hypocrisy—a constant, mutual pulse of wanting with no outlet.

Preserving ‘honour’ may not be the only thing holding them back, but that bulwark was more than sufficient, even before Seungcheol started to venture out by himself.

Jihoon doesn’t know what’s happened between them for Seungcheol to behave like this, but it’s an occurrence that’s become far too common these past few weeks. The man seems to be dodging his company at every opportunity, fabricating excuses to keep Jihoon indoors while he ventures out to meet with his informants and gather supplies and even to complete _missions_ without his knowledge. In fact, Jihoon is certain that had he not been a light sleeper, Seungcheol had every intention to leave him behind while he went off to Paris for a week to dispatch a giant Sewer Serpent Demon.

It’s preposterous.

They had an agreement. They’re supposed to be working as a team, and yet Jihoon is beginning to feel like an extra useless limb.

Yes, Seungcheol is very free with secrets and still welcomes his contribution, but only in academic matters when a text requires translation or when a complex codex needs to be deciphered. When it comes to more physical pursuits, Jihoon is immediately pushed aside and ushered to safety. And so much for the combat training Seungcheol promised him—except for a single, albeit, disastrous dagger wielding lesson, they have yet to cover the basics of self-defence. The usual excuses of _‘Later, I promise’_ and _‘After the next mission’_ have slowly been replaced by _‘It’s not necessary for you to learn his now’_ and _‘Why would you need to learn this when I’ll be there to protect you?’_

Seungcheol had claimed that last one had merely been in jest, but Jihoon’s certain he was being deadly serious. The man clearly has no intention of teaching him how to defend himself because he never actually intends to let Jihoon fall into harm. Which, yes—could be considered quite sweet, but is still incredibly grating.

How can Jihoon ever prove himself if Seungcheol never lets him try? And how is he supposed to shed the shackles of his former life when Seungcheol persists on treating him like something small and precious that must be protected.

Take their accommodations for instance, the rooms they’ve made their base of operations in Amsterdam. It’s not a boarding house, nor a brackish little inn—it’s bohemian paradise, furnished to the nines. Hardly the rough and tumble arrangement Jihoon expected to be living as a Hunter’s assistant.

He curls and uncurls his toes in the rug by the bed. Imported tiger pelt from India, unless he's not much mistaken, and probably worth more than what the entire inn makes in a year. And the bed—the bed really is quite ridiculous; the linens are not linen at all, but silk, and the blankets are piled three thick, a not unnecessary luxury in this city and its nightmarish winters, but they’re Norwegian Wolf fur, an superfluous opulence when a simple woollen blanket would do just as well.

It's plenty big too, big enough to sleep Jihoon and Seungcheol. Hell, it would probably sleep Jihoon and _two_ of Seungcheol, and yet, in what he must have considered some sort of chivalrous gesture, Seungcheol has insisted that Jihoon take the bed all to himself while he squeezes into the single bed in the second room intended for a gentleman’s valet.

_It’s Preposterous_. Preposterous with a capital P.

Jihoon appreciates luxury, but he does not what to _depend_ on it, either. It is, after all, part of what makes Seungcheol a man of danger: this practicality, this lack of attachment to comfort.

Flinging himself on the bed in a huff, Jihoon buries his face in one of the many, many pillows stacked against the headboard.

He accepts he’s being a great deal more bitter over a show of kindness and a few home comforts than he should; as brash and high-handed as he can be sometimes, Seungcheol clearly cares about him and takes him far more seriously than most people do. It’s just hard to remain grateful when he’d made to feel like a pampered little pet.

* * *

Amsterdam’s _[De Wallen](https://64.media.tumblr.com/91a5a2e15ac9213b015c91b4d7942168/ba8fe633a495951a-6d/s400x600/ab916fb52d65d606e92d3a671a872163d409aecc.jpg)_ is a terror to navigate during the day, let alone at half past midnight. The houses running parallel to the canal have seen better days, practically held together with hope and prayers. The buildings are crowded, layered on top of each other, fused together by tunnels, bridges and rickety wooden stairwells. Between those tunnels, bridges and stairwells is a winding corridor of inns, shops, brothels, slums, taverns, and the crème de la crème of every upstanding gentleman’s worst nightmares on two legs.

It is by far not the cleanest or safest place to conduct business, but it’s certainly the most discreet, and Seungcheol appreciates any rendezvous spot a man like him can slip through relatively unnoticed.

And he would have managed to do so, had he not had _Jihoon_ with him.

Seungcheol stops outside the tavern door and looks Jihoon over, sighing quietly. Even though Jihoon’s eschewed his impeccably tailored jacket for a shabbier one, dispensed with the silk waistcoat and is donning his least favourite cravat, he _still_ looks like a man of gentry, too clean for a place like this. There’s _embroidery_ at his collar and sleeves for crying out loud, and……is he carrying a book about _Butterflies_?

_Oh Lord_ —Seungcheol despairs at his life.

It seems no matter how hard Jihoon tries to blend in, he still sticks out like a black cat on snow. And in a place like this, someone’s going to want to fuck him or kill him before they conclude their business. Maybe _both_.

He had tried to dissuade Jihoon from coming with him of course, but the man had been oddly persistent, going so far as to stand in Seungcheol’s way as he attempted to leave wearing the cutest little pout. Seungcheol could have easily manhandled him out of the way, but it was just easier to let Jihoon accompany him then argue. Safer to let him sit in a quiet corner where Seungcheol could keep an eye on him, then have him trying to tail Seungcheol rebelliously anyway.

He’s a tenacious little thing when he puts his mind to something. That much, Seungcheol suspects, will never change. 

“Remember what I told you—” Seungcheol says, glancing behind him to make sure no one’s listening. “You are to speak to no one. Not a soul. You are to remain at your table until I finish speaking with Namjoon, and you are not to interrupt us under any circumstances. Understood?”

Dark eyes narrow, delicate brow lowering with disapproval, “Fine. But will I _ever_ get a chance to speak to Namjoon in person?”

Seungcheol finds himself smiling, charmed by the easy innocence of the question.

“I’m not sure that’s wise Petal.”

Jihoon predictably opens his mouth to argue, so Seungcheol changes tactics. “It’s not for me to decide anyway, it’s up to Namjoon. He’s a naturally suspicious man and favours his privacy above all things. I am certain he will approach you when he feels the time is right.”

Jihoon seems to prefer that response, and nods, and Seungcheol pushes his way inside.

The tavern is nothing more than a tiny hole in the wall, noisy and smoky and unsteadily lit. A cursory examination of those present reveal no familiar faces, there’s just a rough-looking crowd milling about, hunkered over cards or glasses at dark, smoky tables.

None of them pay him any attention as he retreats to a corner table, shoving the straggle-haired individual snoring with his head on the table off the chair so they have a place to sit with a wall at their back. He has no real concerns about his safety, given that the patronage of the bar is almost exclusively drunk, and almost exclusively minding its own business, but putting off opportunists with his fists is more time-consuming than letting them know not to try.

Jihoon slides into the chair next to his, clutching his book tightly. When a barmaid comes over to set a couple of drinks in front of them, he clutches at that too, murmuring, “This seems like a reputable establishment for a get-together with an old chum.”

His tone is dry, deadpan, but Seungcheol can sense the anxiety behind the bravado. It’s clearly just dawning on him how much he stands out now, why Seungcheol had tried to leave him back at their inn. It’s too late to escort him back however, when Seungcheol scans the room again and locks eyes with a familiar face.

He still doesn’t quite know how Namjoon manages that, how he can appear invisible right up until the moment he decides to show himself. The man’s sheer size should not permit such stealth, nor should the fact that he insists on dressing in his traditional hunter’s garb—a darkened hood pulled over his head, perpetually streaked with blood and grime.

Seungcheol only wishes he could be _half_ as stealthy.

When Namjoon gives him a curt nod and jerks his chin towards the empty seat at his table, Seungcheol gives it a moment before patting Jihoon on the knee and moving over to join the other man. 

“That _your_ boy over there?” Namjoon asks, trying not to leer and doing a frankly terribly job of it.

His use of ‘your’ is somewhat ambiguous—they work together, after all—but deliberate. Seungcheol is not being particularly careful parading Jihoon around like this, not for those who know him. And Namjoon is not particularly subtle when he wants to make a point. All things considered, Namjoon can afford to be blunt.

“He’s not my _boy_ Namjoon. He’s my assistant. And he’s almost nineteen, a grown man.”

Namjoon shrugs, amusement still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He’s still awfully young to be travelling with you. This sort of life is not very forgiving on the young. Or the soft hearted.”

Affronted, Seungcheol leans across the table to argue, “Don’t let his appearance fool you. He may appear small and delicate, but there’s potential there. Dangerous potential just waiting to be uncoile—"

“Is he reading a book about _butterflies_?” Namjoon interrupts, craning his neck.

Seungcheol’s jaw clicks shut. 

“Can we get back to why you called me here?”

Namjoon smirks, then slips a hand into his cloak to fetch a tattered envelope. Seungcheol doesn’t hesitate to swipe it off the table when it’s placed in front of him but pauses upon noting the seal has already been broken. It’s not addressed to him either, but to Namjoon, and is dated a month prior. Inside is a letter and two train tickets for first class passage to Berlin, leaving tomorrow morning.

“Germany?”

Namjoon inclines his head, “The town of Kappelrodeck, _Schwarzwald_ , to be precise.”

Seungcheol quirks an eyebrow, allows a small hint of pique to enter his voice. “The Black Forest? Lovely views, but a terribly big place to get terribly lost.”

Namjoon hums knowingly, gazing moving from Seungcheol’s face to the envelope between them. “That’s the general explanation for the spate of disappearances linked with the region. But the letter I recently received suggests something more _sinister_ may be afoot.”

“How _much_ more sinister?”

“Witchcraft.” Namjoon says, dropping his voice enough that it shouldn’t be audible to any but the most determined eavesdropper. “The details in the letter were too vague to be certain, but the man who drafted it writes of a very _unique_ experience he had as a child. Him and sister both. What they came across there, in the depths of the forest, it feels me with dread.”

Seungcheol’s other eyebrow joins the first, but he unfolds the letter and scans it quickly. The drafter, a Hansel Stein, appears to be well spoken, and writes in a pleasant, lucid manner, even though the details he shares are not so.

It’s certainly a unique story, and he says as much.

“Over two hundred people have been reported missing since then, all from villages and towns that surround the forest. Most of them children.” Namjoon says, face setting in those grim lines Seungcheol is so familiar with.

Seungcheol takes a moment to digest this, then shakes his head, “It _is_ a well known treacherous region Namjoon. Most of the forest cannot be navigated on horseback, and the trees are so tall and dense you can scarcely determine a route other than the one you make for yourself. It’s not unheard of for people to lose their way in a forest even _half_ as large.”

“True, but the letter—”

“Speaks of an incident over _thirty_ years ago. A man recollecting a childhood memory.” Seungcheol cuts in before Namjoon can spit his rebuttal. “Who’s to say some of those details have not been influenced by a child’s imagination?”

No hint of emotion reaches Namjoon's face, which means he has already considered and rejected the possibility. “His sister recounts the details in the very same way, and it’s a story they _both_ stand by even after all this time. What we should be asking ourselves is, what motive do they have to lie?”

Which Seungcheol silently concedes is a fair point. Most people—most _sensible_ people—don’t go around sharing their paranoid delusions out loud.

“But why now? Why have they waited all this time to share their story?” Seungcheol can’t help but point out.

Namjoon’s mouth twists. “Apparently he did try to warn people before, but the town’s mayor has declared him a madman and no one will listen to him. Word is, the Mayor is looking to expand Kappelrodeck’s potential as a trade route by creating a wine road to Baden-Baden. Unfortunately, that route will divert through a large portion of the Black forest and Hansel is concerned that even _more_ people are now likely to stumble upon what he and his sister did those many years ago. I say that warrants some investigation—even if it’s only to put their fears to rest.”

Seungcheol nods, though he is not entirely pleased with the revelation, especially if he must navigate the stifling bureaucracy this _fool_ has unwittingly drawn by sharing his story with the wrong people. Seungcheol prefers to conduct his business discreetly, with little interference from the local population as possible. A preference this man might have just made impossible now.

Beyond that, there’s another doubt niggling at him. 

“Why are you not investigating this yourself?”

Namjoon blows out a long, exhausted breath and drops his gaze to the cup in his hands.

All around them conversations rise and rumble and crash with laughter, high tensions easing with drink. There's already been one fight. There will probably be another before the hour finally chases the tavern's occupants to their beds. Seungcheol doesn't care. He's intently focused on Namjoon, waiting to see what his friend will say.

When Namjoon finally continues, it's in a voice gone cautious and low. 

“I did plan on it. Except—” He trails of and reaches down to lift up the corner of his cloak fractionally, granting Seungcheol a swift, brief glance of the thick bandages wrapped around his leg. “Had a little run in with a Werewolf on my last outing.”

“ _Ah_.” Seungcheol hisses through his teeth, quieter than a whistle of surprise.

It’s rare for a Hunter of Namjoon’s caliber to suffer serious injuries. Rarer still to openly share the information with another. It must be a serious injury indeed, and now that Seungcheol’s looking for it, he can see there’s sweat beading at Namjoon’s temples, that the lines of his face are tense with pain and exhaustion beneath the habitual beard shadow.

“Are you retiring?”

Namjoon gives a small cough and does not disagree. “My doctor tells me it should heal in time, but the injury prevents me from traversing such terrain presently. Normally I would just sit on a case like this and wait till my health improved, but I thought, since you handled the last mission I passed your way so _well_ —”

Seungcheol blows out his breath, half-laughing and half an exasperated sigh, “Well? I almost didn’t make it out alive Namjoon. Had it not been for Jihoon’s bull-headed optimism, I would have died in that house.”

Namjoon gives him a great big _oh_ face. “So he’s not just a pretty face to warm your bed?”

Seungcheol feels a hot blush stain his cheeks, but he shrugs it off, doing his best to look nonchalant, “No. He’s incredibly intelligent and quick thinking. He speaks over a dozen languages and can decipher some of the most elaborately complex codex’ with little effort. Granted, his combat skills require some nurturing, but he possesses a keen sense of danger that will serve him well.”

Namjoon looks sceptical. He slants a glance over his shoulder, one eyebrow curved.

“Are you _certain_ of that?”

Blinking, Seungcheol whips his head around in time to see Jihoon conversing with two very troublesome looking men hovering over his table. As Seungcheol watches, one of the men points at Jihoon’s book, then gestures vaguely in the direction of the tavern door. Jihoon nods excitably in turn, then in a disturbing turn of events, rises from his seat and…. _follows the men towards the tavern door._

Grumbling murderously under his breath, Seungcheol excuses himself from the table and follows.

* * *

Seungcheol stands over the sink, watching a long ribbon of pink saliva run out past his lips and trickle into the basin. The cut over brow still stings faintly and his jaw aches, and he’s doing his damnedest not to worry at the split on the inside of his lower lip with the top of his tongue. But he still has all his teeth, which is more than he can say about those two louts he left back in the alley. 

Grabbing the bottle of brandy on the windowsill, he gulps down a mouthful before pouring some onto a fresh cloth and holding it over the cut. It’s burns like hell, but he wants to get everything numbed before the pain can really start kicking in. By the time he steps back into the room, Jihoon’s sitting on the edge of his bed, fiddling with his cravat.

He shoots Seungcheol a fleeting, anxious look, before quickly dropping his gaze back to his fingers, slotting them together.

“I didn’t mean to get you into a brawl Seungcheol, but I do believe that was an unnecessarily _dramatic_ reaction. How can you be so sure those men had nefarious intentions? Perhaps they really did only intend to share with their butterfly collection with me.”

Seungcheol would dearly love to roll his eyes, except the headache brewing behind his temples is preventing him from giving that comment the long-suffering flair it so richly deserves.

“Because I am not an idiot Jihoon. Honestly, I don’t understand how you can so easily trust some people, when it took you so long to place any trust in me when we first met.”

Jihoon throws up his hands, with all the not-inconsiderable drama he knows how to conjure, and throws himself on the bed, an endeavour which is marred somewhat by the way the impossibly springy mattress turns the motion into more of a bounce than abject collapse. Jihoon is an expert sulker, though, undeterred by such trifles.

“You were a broody, mysterious stranger when we first met—who seemed to be trying to rob my uncle of fortune and kick him off his lands. You gave me nothing _to_ trust.”

Seungcheols lets out an extravagant snort, “Of course. If only I had have known the best way to lure you away was to offer up my _pinned butterfly collection_. Trying to keep you safe would have been so much easier than following you everywhere.”

Jihoon gives him a long, silent look, searching.

There’s an endearing amount of hopefulness in his voice when he says, “Are you speaking hypothetically, or do you actually have a pinned butterfly collection? Because if you do, I would dearly love to see it.”

Seungcheol looks up at the ceiling and prays for strength. It takes him an entire minute to collect himself before he can speak calmly, “The next time I tell you to sit quietly and wait for me, you better do as you are told. Understood?”

He doesn’t really pose that last bit like a question. That was sort of the definitive last word, and with the matter settled, a gratifying silence fills the room…

“I beg your pardon!”

…for all of _five seconds._

Still, what a beautiful five seconds they were.

“Understood? Understood!” Jihoon straightens, nostrils flaring, and Seungcheol instinctively braces himself for a slap. “No, I do not bloody well understand. I may be your assistant Seungcheol, and you may preside over many of my actions, but you do _not_ get to speak to me as if I were a child.”

Seungcheol inhales slowly, “I _do_ , when you insist on acting as careless as one.”

Jihoon clamps his jaw shut, molars grinding against a surge of what must be some rather unflattering observations of Seungcheol himself.

Silence stretches between them, punctuated by the sound of falling rain and a faraway roll of thunder. The tension rising in the room is undeniable. Seungcheol wants to say harsh words, hurtful words, just as he wants Jihoon to bite back at him; to lose control of themselves in arguing. He wants even more so to place his hand around the vulnerable stretch of Jihoon’s exposed throat and use the touch to compel the other man up to him, set his teeth against that pale column of skin, pepper it with kisses, bite the tendon that’s visible.

“I suggest you get some rest. We depart early in the morning.” He takes a step back instead, trying to regain some semblance of control before a fight erupts. But Jihoon deliberately shoves past him on the way to the bathroom, like he’s _angling_ for one.

“And if I don’t? What will you do, bend me over you knee and _spank_ me?” He says, words so thick with sarcasm it’s a wonder they made it out his throat.

Gritting his teeth, Seungcheol grabs Jihoon’s arm, spins him around to face him, “It would do you well not to suggest such things Jihoonie,” He says, in a dangerously even tone of voice, “I might be tempted to follow through.”

Almost nose to nose with Jihoon now, he takes a second's sadistic pleasure in the way the other man's lips shape a surprised 'o', the way Jihoon's eyes slowly widen.

It’s just a warning of course, a threat that Seungcheol has no intention of ever delivering. But for a few moments, he allows himself to picture the image that threat creates, a fantasy in vivid contrast to the stalemate they’ve been inhabiting for months and finds himself blindingly hard in mere seconds.

“Go to sleep.” He grunts, letting go of Jihoon’s arm and stepping back to put some distance between them.

Maybe it’s the lighting, or the heat from the fire, but Seungcheol thinks that Jihoon’s cheekbones flush even rosier than they already were before.

* * *

At dawn of the following day, they set out together. Unnoticed in the early hour, but with written instructions and a hefty cheque left behind to secure their rooms and belongings that should prevent any panic or outcry. 

They arrive in Berlin just before nightfall on the same day they depart, then catch another train to Frankfurt, then to Leipzig, then finally a carriage from there to Kappelrodeck.

Jihoon sets across from him in the carriage for the last leg of the journey, immersed in his book, face set in that frown that makes him look like an angry kitten. Normally the easy swaying of the carriage would have lulled him into sleep by now, and he’d be snuffling into Seungcheol’s shoulder, seeking warmth and snoring adorably, but there’s clearly some resentment lingering over their non-argument three days ago, because the man has said no more than three full sentences to him since.

When they reach Kappelrodeck however, he pokes his out the small window to survey the streets, the layout of the place, and when he turns to meet Seungcheol’s eyes Seungcheol knows he’s come to the same conclusion he has.

The town is much livelier than either of them expected.

Usually places that require a hunter’s particular expertise are desolate little towns and ramshackle villages, where half the population has already cut tail and fled while the other half board up their windows and shun new faces. But the streets of Kappelrodeck are teeming with people, tradesmen and locals alike. So many in fact, they soon have to abandon their ride, grab their bags and make the rest of the way on foot.

It had been a while since Seungcheol’s walked in such a crowded place, and it takes time to relax. People jostle around them, talking loudly and joking; moving baskets of goods, sacks of produce, crates and carts appearing here and there. He tries to keep an eye on Jihoon as he scans the crowds, looking for anything that suggests something sinister lurking beneath the revelry. 

Nothing looks out of the ordinary though, it’s merely a busy little town with busy little people. What they need are directions, a room for the night, and possibly something to eat. All three can probably be found, Seungcheol decides, at the tavern he spots up ahead.

No such luck, however. The first tavern they stop at is overflowing with people, all drinking their dinners, and the tall, grizzled-looking man with scars on his arms that greets them seems disinclined to answer even the simplest of questions.

It is much the same in the next place the visit, and the next, until they reach the end of the cobbled street and only a single establishment remains. A coaching inn.

Here it seems they have the place nearly to themselves; if there's been a lunch rush, it’s over, but as they approach the counter, the sign advertising room for board is being replaced for one declaring no vacancy.

Seungcheol pastes on a genial expression and tries anyway, offering more money than a room is likely worth. The short, rotund man behind the bar shakes his head and shoots a sad look at the hefty sack of coins on the counter. 

“Ah, if only you’d arrived sooner, I just gave away my last room. But perhaps you’ll have more luck at the inn down the street. They had some rooms available yesterday.”

Seungcheol bites back a frustrated sigh and retrieves his money, “Maybe you can help me with something else.” He says next, leaning one elbow on the counter. “I’m looking for a man by the name of Hansel Stein. Do you know where I can find him?”

The man roars a hearty laugh, “Definitely not in my establishment. He doesn’t approve of my brand of hospitality. You might want to try the Church at the top of the hill, but I ought to warn you, he’s a bit of a nutter.”

“Oh really?” Seungcheol slowly hikes up a single eyebrow, not to seem too curious. “How so?”

The man sighs, then reaches under the counter for something. A moment later he produces a pamphlet, a little stained and dogeared with age, and sets it on the counter with a decisive snap.

It is one piece, folded in half to form a little two-page booklet. Seungcheol picks it up, glancing briefly at the [sketch](https://64.media.tumblr.com/dd7ddbd41b4d31524d66d1458cc52ab2/607d1a4d79156062-e8/s400x600/90b8881377e377f1632f2597ae13b37f7537faf7.jpg) of the Gingerbread House on the cover as he does so. He flips open the cover and starts reading. After half a page or so he begins turning pages briskly, reading bits here and there until he finally shuts the booklet.

“I can’t see what the harm is. Seems to be a good bedtime story.”

The man's face is blank for a moment, then he guffaws. “A good story indeed, but that’s not _all_ he’s claiming it to be. He’s saying that it’s all true, and that’s very bad for business around these parts. Ever since Herr Lukas and his daughter went missing in the woods, there have been whispers, and the building of the road was delayed people had become so frightened. But instead of calming the masses, he publishes a pamphlet about a cannibalistic witch in the forest. You’d expect the local priest wouldn’t buy into all this witchcraft nonsense, that he would be trying to _unite_ his congregation, not frighten them away.”

Seungcheol stiffens.

Hansel’s a priest?

That, he had not expected.

* * *

Armed with directions, the head towards the residential area of Kapplerodeck towards Church Hill. Not very imaginative, Seungcheol thinks—but there is a bloody big Church on top of it, topped with a giant black cross spire that seems to _loom_ over the landscape. The name does suggest itself.

The building itself is supposedly the oldest in the town, with small dark windows and heavy eaves, completely depressing and uninviting. The hills rise steeply around it, forested with thick, dark pine trees, so that even in mid-afternoon it’s already in the shade.

Seungcheol hadn’t planned on setting foot in a house of God again, even as a tourist. The architecture is vast and imposing in a way that gets under his skin, and the stained glass windows depicting bloodied saints all leave him feeling even more unsettled than all the redemption and sin and regret nonsense his Grandfather used to try and drill into his head.

But here he is, walking into a medieval Church with his assistant in order to investigate a witch. 

“St. Korbinian’s,” Jihoon murmurs, glancing around, “Can’t say it’s a saint I’m familiar with.”

“Understandable, there’s about a million of them.” Seungcheol answers out of the corner if his mouth.

His eyes are locked straight ahead on the altar, so he startles when a man steps close beside and says, “Patron Saint of Bears, believe it or not.”

Seungcheol turns, a startled curse already halfway past his lips, and stops himself short when he sees the cassock, the hat, the benevolent smile.

“Uh, Father _Stein_ I presume?”

The Priest tilts his head and looks at them, back and forth and back again, as if considering their clothing and the status of their honour. 

“Yes, that’s correct. Can I be of any help gentleman?” He says, and he’s clearly trying to sound warm and approachable, but Seungcheol thinks he’s a little unnerved by the sight of an oddly dressed, heavily armed stranger in his church. And the tiny man holding a book about _Lepidopterology_.

“We’ve just got a few questions, if you’d kindly spare the time,” Seungcheol says, holding up the pamphlet, and also trying to steer them in the direction of the subject they’re there to talk about without starting out by mentioning who they are. He’s not planning on hiding it, but he doesn’t see any need to start things off with whatever distrust the man might already have for the supernatural.

It seems like Seungcheol’s caution is for nothing, though. “The Mayor sent you, didn’t he? To silence me.” The priest asks, the mask of geniality sliding off his face, leaving a tense, unpleasant expression.

“We don’t work for anyone,” Seungcheol says, which is true enough, and carries the benefit of driving away a bit of suspicion from the man’s face. “It was _you_ who asked for our help in fact.”

Hansel’s eyebrows arch high and his eyes widen, before lighting up with understanding, “Oh, oh it’s _you_.” He says, the faintest hint of a smile forming. “I’m terribly sorry about the confusion, the Mayor is blaming me for the delay on the roadworks and has sent numerous people to pester me. And I never expected you to come all this way in person, but thank you, thank you so much for doing so, my sister and I have been—”

He pauses to divide a look between them, expression shifting from pleased to perplexed, before he levels his full suspicion on Seungcheol. “Apologies, I confess I don’t know which one of you to address. Which one of you is Namjoon?”

Seungcheol shakes his head, “Fraid it’s neither of us Father. Namjoon sends his apologies. He is recovering from an injury and is unable to travel presently, so he passed your letter on to me. I’m Seungcheol and this is my assistant, Jihoon.”

“Ah, I see.” Hansel offers, with an audible trace of discomfort. “But you—you perform the same _duties_ he does?”

“Yes,” Seungcheol answers simply, “We just have some questions, regarding what you saw.” He continues, attempting to return the conversation to its original purpose.

Only now Hansel appears conflicted, and leans forward, speaking in a hushed voice, “I would prefer if we didn’t discuss this here, if you don’t mind. And it’s my twin sister Gretel you should really be speaking to, she saw far more than I did. I will pay her a visit later and inform her you have arrived, so we can meet. But uhm, I gather you have not managed to secure accommodations in town.”

Seungcheol considers pushing further anyway, but he knows first-hand how stubborn people can be when they feel pressured.

They will get information when Hansel is ready to give it and not a second before. So he swallows his questions and shakes his head, “No, we haven’t. But I’m sure we’ll be able to secure board in one of the surrounding villages.”

Hansel is quick to shake his head, “I don’t expect you will. Since the mayor’s announcement, the town’s population has tripled in size—there’s scarcely a free room for miles with all the workmen that have come to help build the road. But no matter—we have a spare room available on the grounds. You are more than welcome to make use of it. The further you remain from the forest the better.”

Seungcheol would have preferred to leave the Church grounds as soon as possible, to search further afield for suitable accommodation, but a quick glance at his travel-weary assistant has him dismissing his uneasiness and bowing graciously, “Thank you, that is most kind.”

* * *

The room Hansel offers them just so happens to be in the cellar of the parsonage itself—just past the main doors and around the corner, where a series of steep stone steps lead down to a basement door below ground level. Hansel escorts them there, fishes out a key and unlocks it, pushing it open.

It’s not very modern or luxurious, but it’s clean and warm and Seungcheol offers his thanks again as Hansel leaves them to settle in while he fetches his sister.

When the door shuts behind them, Seungcheol barely gets a chance to speak before Jihoon takes charge of the mundane details of settling into their temporary lodgings. Unloading their packs into the clean and spacious bedroom, adding their limited travel provisions to the stores already laid in.

He’s moving with purpose, expression thoughtful, in a way that suggests he’s deliberately keeping himself busy to avoid any sort of conversation. Even when Seungcheol attempts to initiate one, about one inane topic or another, he’s met with nothing but silence.

Seungcheol does his best not to seem perturbed. Probably he fails.

Quiet is an unusual humour for Jihoon. Normally he would fill every available space with chatter, putting words to the boundless energy that drives him. But he doesn't speak. It's not that the energy is gone—Seungcheol can all but _see_ him vibrating with the familiar chaos of thoughts in his head—but for once Jihoon seems to have turned all that _inwards_.

By the time Hansel returns to fetch them, they’ve hardly said two words to each other and Seungcheol is half-tempted to grab Jihoon by the shoulders and give him a good shake. But they have a job to do first, so he schools his expression into indifference and follows Hansel to the ramshackle parsonage at the edge of the churchyard.

There, they are introduced to Gretel: a dour faced woman, neat and well starched in the unrelenting drab of a spinster's weeds.

She seems less enthused by their presence than her brother had been, but she welcomes them inside nonetheless and leads the way into the small kitchen where a small spread of food and tea had been laid out for them.

Seungcheol would much prefer to get right down to business, but Jihoon’s stomach chooses that moment to growl, audibly, and he blushes. Bless him.

Hansel smiles indulgently and waves a quick blessing over the food. “Please, sit—eat. This is all for you. I’m sure you both have an appetite after your journey.”

It takes a moment for all of them to settle in; Seungcheol with his back to the door, Gretel nearest the window, and Jihoon dropping his lean frame into another chair between them. Father Hansel remains standing as he pours them some tea, and Seungcheol takes a bite of Stollen, enjoying it as he waits for someone to speak.

“So,” Gretel begins, glancing and forth between them with open curiosity. “You are familiar with our story then.”

Seungcheol rubs his forehead. “In part, yes. But we would be grateful if you could recount your experience with us directly. So that we may get a clearer understanding of… certain details.”

The siblings share a worried glance, then look to him in unison. “You don’t believe us, do you?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Seungcheol says, at the same time Jihoon cuts in with, “Of course, we do.”

Gretel falls silent, expression flat, and Seungcheol knows whatever she would have shared is gone, pushed back behind the certainty that neither of them can be trusted with the information. On the other hand, Hansel’s weary desperation speaks for itself, and his gaze fixes on Seungcheol as he speaks.

“It’s a strange story, I’ll admit. I often wondered if we imagined the entire thing, but I still have terrible nightmares. I wake up most nights, drenched in sweat, reliving each horrible moment. And then, well, there’s Gretel’s _hand_ —” 

Shifting uncomfortably, Gretel gives her brother a scathing sidelong glance. They share a meaningful back and forth, then, with great reluctance, she proceeds to remove her right glove, revealing a horrific blackened hand.

Jihoon gasps, in that same overly dramatic way he does when he spots a fat spider he needs Seungcheol to take care of. It’s terribly unsubtle, but Seungcheol can’t blame him, he’s fighting the strange urge to flinch at the sight himself.

He’s seen things a hundred times more disturbing up close, but something about Gretel’s hand in particular is making him uncomfortable. Dark magic, the very old kind, leaves a stain on one’s consciousness. Or in Gretel’s case, something more like an oily residue that just won't wash off.

“What happened?” Jihoon gives voice to the question Seungcheol doesn’t dare put forth.

Gretel raises her hand, demonstrating how her fingers don’t quite bend how they’re supposed to. The joints seem stiff, like the bones beneath have been petrified, and in the dim candlelight, the corruption of skin shines like wet leather.

“I touched her you see, when I pushed her in the fire. I was a good distance away from it myself—but I felt my hand burn, like I _too_ had been burnt, and when we fled, the tips blackened and numbed, leaving my hand quite useless.” She glances up at them with a rueful twist of her lips. “I keep it hidden now—it frightens the children.”

For a moment, Seungcheol had the rare feeling of not knowing what the hell to say. Hunting, killing, intimidation—that comes naturally to him, but it’s rare that his profession requires a _softer_ touch. He tries his best, when the situation calls for it, but it frequently feels like trying to converse in a language he hasn't learned.

Thankfully Jihoon steps in, expression all sympathy and apology.

“It must have been a dreadful ordeal, and I appreciate that you do not want to relive your experience by sharing it,” He says quietly, pushing her slowly but firmly in the right direction. “But if we’re to investigate the matter, we need a better understanding of what we’re facing out there. Anything you could tell us could prove vital.”

At first Seungcheol doesn’t think she’ll say another word to them, but something in the urgency of Jihoon’s tone seems to have shaken her words loose, because she nods sombrely and begins to speak.

“We grew up in a small village not far from here, just a few minutes down the river in fact. You probably passed it on your way here. Of course, it’s a far cry from how we remember it and we never dared to go back—the memories of our childhood there were too awful.” She explains in a way that doesn’t enlighten Seungcheol at all.

She pauses, and makes a complicated gesture. “It was in the height famine you see, when our parents led us into the forest and left us there. It was a cruel, yet common practice at the time, to let children forage the forest floor instead of waste away at home from starvation. They’d attempted it before, but we had found our way back. We were not so lucky the second time though, and became quite lost. We had ventured for many days, trying to find our way back, and just as we’d begun to give up hope entirely, we came upon this beautiful little house, nestled deep between the trees.”

“The gingerbread house?” Seungcheol says—asks—tests out on his tongue. He feels stupid just saying it out loud.

She looks up at him again, and her face is a mask of conflict. “Yes, and as strange as it sounds, it seemed even stranger to us at the time. A house made entirely of the sweetest smelling gingerbread. We could hardly contain our delight, and so hungry we were, we didn’t even stop to consider the absurdity of the tableau before us. We just ventured inside, where there were even more delights to be found. All the food our hearts ever could desire was piled in front of us, on a large, wide table. So we ate, and ate, and ate—until our stomach were bulging, and when we finished, that’s when we noticed the little old woman. She’d been there the entire time, watching us patiently, filling our cups with fresh milk and bringing more food to the table. She seemed like a sweet old lady too—”

“She looked just like our grandmother.” Hansel pipes in.

“No Hansel, she did not.” Gretel huffs, shooting her brother a disquieting look.

Hansel sighs—a long exhale infused with weariness. “This is one point we have never seemed to agree on. Gretel’s recollection of the old lady differs to mine—”

“I spent the most time with her, I know what she looked like.” Gretel snaps, and now there is emotion—a combination of grief and bitterness—lacing her words. “She looked like Mrs Bauer, a sweet old lady who used to care for us when our parents were away. If she looked anything like grandmother, I would have immediately distrusted her. God knows how much I despised that old hag. She never had a kind word to say about me, though she always doted over Hansel.”

Jihoon picks up the slight tension in his shoulders with a flick of his eyes and takes control of the conversation. “No matter. What she looked like has no bearing on the story I’m sure—it’s what she _did_ that’s important.”

The twins nod in unison, in agreement about that at least.

“When we realised we’d trespassed, we were very apologetic. But she didn’t seem to mind, and even offered us a place to stay the night, provided that we repay her generosity by helping her cut wood and carry water and help with the upkeep of the house for a short period of time. We were hardly in a position to refuse, and gladly accepted her offer. Though I got the feeling we couldn’t leave, even if we wanted to, because soon after we finished eating, we became so lethargic and sleepy, and hardly made it to a bed before passing out. A few days passed that way, were we would tend to the upkeep of the house during the morning and feast from the afternoon right till supper time. But on the fifth day, I could not eat anymore, and Hansel had grown so plump, his clothes would hardly fit. But when we refused to eat—she changed, she became angry. I grew scared of her then and shared my intention to leave the following morning with Hansel. But when morning light came, I awoke to find myself in chains and Hansel _caged_ in the kitchen.”

Hansel reaches out to console her as her face trembles with emotion, and it takes a moment for her to regain her composure and continue.

“She kept forcing us to eat—and told me that I had to encourage Hansel to eat more, because the first of us to reach the perfect level of plumpness would be the first to be eaten.”

Gretel shudders, at that, and when she looks up, her eyes look desperate, like the last thing in the world she wants to do is keep talking about this.

Seungcheol thinks, for a minute, of how to keep probing without unearthing more disturbing memories, but he would like to know that he’s done his due diligence, at least, before they wonder off in search of this Witch. So he asks it as quickly and baldly as he can. “How did you manage to escape?”

“It must have been the tenth day,” Gretel murmurs, pressing both thumbs into her eye sockets like he she nursing a building headache. Or perhaps just summoning some long-repressed memories.

“Hansel could hardly move he was so sick from eating. I knew she had something big planned, because the table had been cleared of food and pushed aside to make way for a terribly large oven. One we never even noticed until that very day, like she had just summoned it out of the ether. She gave me a broom and made me sweep it out first, and I came upon so many charred pieces of bone, I knew what was going to happen. So I waited until the oven was lit and well stoked, before tricking her into checking it herself. When she did, I shoved her inside and sealed the door. Then I released Hansel from his cage and we fled.”

Next to him, Jihoon hums, expression distracted, like he’s still thinking the story through, “But if you succeeded in trapping her inside the oven—what makes you so sure she survived?”

“They’re not.” Seungcheol interjects, dismissing Jihoon’s question with a flick of his hand. “That’s why we’re here after all—to be certain the threat no longer exists.” He finishes, meeting Jihoon’s scowl head-on.

It’s a fair question, and he doesn’t often make a point of dismissing Jihoon’s curiosity, but he already had his answer the moment he set eyes on the curse on Gretel’s hand. 

There is something out there alright. Something very old and very dark and Seungcheol does not look forward to making its acquaintance.

* * *

Jihoon will admit to having his doubts about this case from the beginning. From the moment Seungcheol briefed him on where they were going and why, and after a careful perusal of the letter Hansel had drafted, he’d been ready to dismiss the story as a complete fabrication. 

It _has_ happened before after all. They get wind of one strange phenomenon or another, learn about a string of unexplained deaths or the sighting of some mythological beast, only to determine it’s a great big hoax after they’ve put in a depressing amount of legwork.

After speaking to the Stein twins in person however, he’s not so certain.

There’s something uncanny about their story that just doesn’t sit well with him, an edge of unease that’s starting to work its way into the back of his mind. The manner in which the twins told their story did not appear at all rehearsed, and they also have nothing to gain from fabricating such a tale. If anything, they seem to have alienated themselves even further in the community by speaking out, so there must at least be _some_ legitimacy to their account.

Seungcheol seems to think so too.

Walking away from the parsonage, after, he still looks distracted, like he’s busily working his way through everything the twins had said, but confusion clings to that sober expression, evident in the shadowed crease at the very centre of his brow.

He’s so lost in his thoughts, Jihoon has to reach out a hand to guide his distracted steps towards around a puddle, then keeps a hold of his arm to guide him down the cellar stairs before Seungcheol tumbles blindly down them.

It wouldn’t be the first time; Seungcheol is a terrible multi-tasker—it’s either fighting or thinking with him, but apparently never both at the same time.

They settle in for the night amidst that fog of distraction—Jihoon lighting the candles and arranging their supplies, flipping through the Malleus Maleficarum he brought for a hint of what they might be up against, while Seungcheol stands by the hearth and stares into the fire like it’s offering answers to a long held question.

Eventually Jihoon can’t bear the silence anymore and has to speak up.

“What’s troubling you Seungcheol? Is it that you believe their story, or that you don’t and are thinking of a way to let them down gently?”

Seungcheol turns away from the fire but doesn't say anything for a moment. He still appears to be thinking. When he speaks, he speaks slowly, as if he's weighing every word he says carefully. “I believe they _saw_ something, that they endured something horrific. But I can’t help but have reservations about certain _peculiar_ details.”

Jihoon smiles at him knowingly, “It’s the gingerbread house, isn’t it?”

Seungcheol smiles faintly, “You have to admit it’s a bit ridiculous. It’s like something out of a _fairy-tale._ ” The assertion contains a wealth of derision and yet still falls flat. The bluster and humour sit thinner on Seungcheol's face than usual. There's tension beneath the wide smile, strain in the too-sharp flash of teeth. He pushes a hand through his hair rigidly, as if refusing to allow it to shake, “Surely if such a thing existed, someone else would have come across it by now.”

“Would a gingerbread house in the middle of the forest _truly_ be the strangest thing you’ve seen?” Jihoon wonders aloud.

“I suppose not,” Seungcheol agrees, but he sounds a little cautious about it when he goes on, “Have you managed to anything useful in that beastly book? It looks hefty enough.”

Shaking his head, Jihoon folds the book in his lap shut and sets it aside, “No such luck, it’s just a load of religious ideology and anti-feminist drivel if you ask me, and there’s nothing identifying in your father’s journals either. But I feel we’ve made a rather large assumption about this Witch—that more people escaped to _tell_ the tale. What if they didn’t? What if Hansel and Gretel were the only ones to escape? And yes, even if the idea of gingerbread house is rather absurd and we discount it as merely the hallucination of two starved children struggling through famine, the same cannot be said about the dark mark on Gretel’s hand. That is not a burn Seungcheol—we’ve seen it before. Such a mark only manifests when a person is exposed to the darkest forms of magic.”

There is nothing that can be considered dismissive about Seungcheol’s voice when he replies, yet there is marked frustration in his tone when he says, “It could easily be something else, something that has nothing to with dark magic at all. We shouldn’t jump to conclusions over one piece of evidence. There could be _nothing_ out there.”

Jihoon is not entirely pleased with this hazy conclusion, but there doesn’t seem to be much point in arguing the merits of the case further.

“Well…I suppose we’ll find out tomorrow.”

Something unreadable crosses Seungcheol’s face—gone before Jihoon can decipher it.

“I will find out,” He says, after a few moments. He glances away, towards the fire again, eyes distant. “You should remain here.”

“What?” Jihoon isn’t sure he’d heard properly, and he twists, pushing himself to the edge of his seat to look over at Seungcheol. “You can’t be serious? You plan to leave me _behind_?”

Seungcheol rubs the back of his neck, apparently realising that Jihoon isn’t entirely on board with this change in circumstances. The way he’s deflecting his gaze is never a good sign, and that smile he’s attempting is too restrained for honesty.

“I just think there’s very little sense in you coming along too. Perhaps your time would be put to better use here, amongst your books.”

Jihoon snorts at the weak excuse. “That’s not it, that’s not it at all. I saw the way you looked at Gretel’s hand. You’re actually worried what we might find out there, and you don’t want me to come along because you think I will be endangered.”

Seungcheol huffs a sound that could either be agreement or denial. “You say that as if my concern for you is offensive in some way.”

Which isn't a direct answer, it's an excuse, it's another wheedling little excuse and Jihoon's not having it.

Rounding the table with measured steps, he crosses the short distance between them. Seungcheol is intimidatingly tall, up close like this, taller and broader than he looks from across the room, from a couple of feet away. But Jihoon doesn’t let that deter him, and his arm shoots forward to shove at Seungcheol’s chest.

“I’ve had enough of this. I don’t know what’s changed, but I’m tired of you leaving me behind whenever you see fit. Just admit you don’t think I have what it takes Seungcheol. You think I am useless, weak. Go on—say it.”

His fist impacts with cloth and, beneath, hard muscle, somewhere centre-mass above the belt. A punch like that probably won't even tickle Seungcheol, but Jihoon isn't satisfied with purely verbal 'communication' anymore. Not today.

Seungcheol doesn’t bite though—he never does. His lips quirk in a faint smile, a pathetic attempt at charm.

“Far from it Jihoon. If I thought that, I wouldn’t have made you my assistant. I merely feel there are dangers out here you are not prepared to face, and I do not want to be the one who pushes you towards it when you are not yet ready.”

That, Jihoon thinks, is a little bit like trying to shut the barn door when the horses have already gone running. He’s already deeply entrenched in Seungcheol’s life of danger, what point is there for prudence now.

“More dangerous than a Giant Sewer Serpent? More dangerous than a Wendigo and a house full of undead?”

“Let’s not get cocky now,” Seungcheol says, still maddeningly steady. “We had a lucky escape with the Wendigo, and the Sewer Serpent was not even a very large one, so I hardly consider that an achievement. As for the events in Weerus Manor, if you recall our time there correctly, you will remember how utterly oblivious you were to how much danger you were in. You were living in that house for three months, surrounded by the undead, and you didn’t notice anything amiss until the very last night when we burnt it to the ground.”

Jihoon glares, irritation rising. “And once I realised the danger—did I not act accordingly? How am I meant to learn the consequences of future danger when you constantly _refuse_ to let me experience anything!”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens a fraction, but he lets out a laugh. “How can you say that when you accompany me everywhere? Our lives have been nothing but danger since we set out.”

“Stop _lying_ Seungcheol.” Jihoon says, surprising himself with the fierceness of his tone. “I know there have been missions you have completed in secret, just as I know you have refused many because you fear they are too dangerous for me. You also refuse to introduce me to certain people because you think I am too soft or too _gentlemanly_ , and oh, don’t get me started on the accommodations you have selected for us along the way.”

Seungcheol pauses, uncharacteristically hesitant. “What…what’s wrong with our accommodations?”

“Nothing. That’s the entire point,” Jihoon huffs, throwing his hands up. “We are supposed to be men of danger, scouring the globe for unholy threats, and yet you consistently select the most luxurious of accommodations so that my comforts are indulged.”

A faint blush has risen to Seungcheol’s cheeks. All anger, surely.

“I—I just wanted to provide you with the comforts you are accustomed to, so that you do not become homesick. Is that so _wrong_ of me?”

Jihoon feels a pang in his stomach.

He never thought of it like _that_ , but he refuses to concede, “Yes—yes, it is. I want to sleep on a dirty floor once in a while. Or in a hammock. Or under the stars where I must fend off a bitterly cold wind. These are all things you deny me when you persist on treating me like a spoiled, pampered pet.”

Seungcheol raises one slanted eyebrow at him, and Jihoon reads the warning in his gaze easily. His eyes are piercing in the dim light, “Unbelievable. Can you even _hear_ yourself? How ungrateful you’re being? I try and keep you safe and you complain, I try and show you kindness and you complain about that too. You seem to complain incessantly regardless of _what_ I do—I’m beginning to wonder if you truly desire me to bend you over my knee and give you a thorough spanking.”

There is unmistakable anger in Seungcheol's tone. His jaw is tight, his profile foreboding. There is thunder barely contained in the stiff set of broad shoulders, but the admonishment still sends a pleasurable shiver along Jihoon's spine.

Being turned on by Seungcheol—the way he moves, the way he talks, his touch, his scent, just about everything about him is a turn on in one way or another—isn't exactly a new sensation. But still, that _particular_ threat is as good as a hand on Jihoon's prick, sending heat rushing through him.

His breeches feel damnably tight all of a sudden, but he takes a step forward anyway, fists clenched.

“Maybe I do. Maybe that’s exactly what I want. The question is, would you dare? Or is this just another one of your empty promises.”

Whatever reaction Seungcheol had been expecting, that had not been it. His face snaps back with spring-loaded recoil. He recovers quickly, though, and snaps back, “Oh no, I’m deadly serious Jihoon, you are _clearly_ in need of a good thrashing. Mark my words, when we complete this mission and return home, I’m going to spank you so hard you’ll not be able to sit comfortably for a week.”

Jihoon barks a laugh, all bluster, “Splendid. Will you be using your hand or a riding crop?”

Seungcheol hesitates, looking strangely embarrassed now for all that the conversation had been about _spanking_ before. Nobody is around, it is just the two of them here, which is why Jihoon had spoken so frankly, yet Seungcheol is crossing his arms and making eye contact with the whole room, minus Jihoon, like he thinks Father Hansel will come bursting in with a great big crucifix and condemn them both.

“Oh, well, uhm—I hadn’t really decided.”

Jihoon waves an impatient hand, “Well perhaps we should establish the details _now_!” His voice sounds nowhere near as casual as he wants. A shadow of desperation has leaked through, and he sounds far too excited. He tries to ease off a little when he finishes, “So that you remain a man of your word, committed to your actions.”

To his absolute delight, Seungcheol actually gives it a solemn moment of genuine consideration. 

“Alright then,” Seungcheol agrees in a fractionally lighter tone, “The wooden sword we use for practice. It’s firm, sturdy—should redden your ass nicely without leaving painful, unsightly welts. That’s what I’m going to use.”

Jihoon barely stifles the pleasurable shudder that courses through him at the thought.

“Good,” He licks his lips, “I look forward to it.”

“Till later then.” Seungcheol grits out.

“Yes, till later.” Jihoon nods, but when he moves as though to retreat, Seungcheol reaches out to block him, one hand curling around his biceps in a cautious but deliberate grip.

The touch keeps Jihoon close, arresting his attempt to withdraw, and his startlement fades to anger, which fades in turn to something else when he notices the deepset, earnest intensity in Seungcheol's eyes.

A pause weighs heavy in the air between them, like a drop of water on wavering spidersilk. They’re mere inches apart and Jihoon can feel the tension building, so fierce and ceaseless, he wonders if Seungcheol intends to wait at _all_ before delivering on his promise.

Perhaps he won’t, perhaps he intends to forgo decorum and discretion completely and punish Jihoon now, and Jihoon can’t help but imagine, shivering with delicious anticipation, what might come next: exactly how Seungcheol would be rough with him. Whether he would spank Jihoon face down on the bed, or astride his lap on the fireside chair. Whether Jihoon would be gagged or free to cry out to his heart’s content. Whether Seungcheol would gentle him after, rubbing lotion into his skin and murmur sweet nothings, and whether he would finally, finally take him to _bed_.

Perhaps Seungcheol's thoughts are tracing a similar path, because his eyes darken and his grip on Jihoon tightens, and there’s something almost hungry in the strength of those hands. When his gaze flickers briefly to Jihoon’s mouth, Jihoon is certain he makes a noise, a soft whimper drowned out by the speeding surge of his heartbeat.

For the span of about forty seconds he thinks they are finally on the same page. Then, suddenly, Seungcheol withdraws, so smoothly Jihoon almost doubts his senses.

There’s no hint of surprise or disgust on his face, no new tension in the line of his shoulders as he moves away. Nothing but calm resignation as he retreats to the other side of the room, fetches his jacket and leaves without explanation.

* * *

The following morning, they leave town behind and head towards the forest with whatever provisions they can carry on their backs. Mostly food and concealable weapons, but Jihoon packs a few of Seungcheol’s father’s journals too—the only ones that briefly touch on the subject of _Dark Witches_ —as well as some herbs and crystals he’s been itching to try and a silver flask of holy water, clipped inside his overcoat.

There’s no saying any of it will be useful, but banishing unholy threats is unpredictable business, you can never be certain what _will_ work.

The directions Hansel provided are vague without a proper map to match them up to, but Jihoon suspects the correct location won’t be too difficult to find. The Stein Twins stumbled across the Gingerbread house without a map after all—and if this _witch_ they’re hunting is really out there, eating people, it stands to reason that she _wants_ to be found.

The sun reaches its zenith by the time they reach the outskirts of the woods, but it does little to warm them once they venture deeper.

The day is colder than usual, made near unbearable by the deluge of rain that settles in and shows no signs of abating. Already, Jihoon can feel the damp chill soak through his underclothes, invasive, until there isn’t a strip of skin free of its touch. His eyes are stinging with it and his overcoat hangs heavily from his shoulders, slapping against his legs with each hurried step he takes.

Then, to make matters worse, he turns his ankle as he climbs a slippery rock and Seungcheol looks down at him with one of those simple, dry looks that says _‘Having fun yet?’_ , and oh, oh—Jihoon _hates_ this.

He hates the woods. And the cold. And the damn _rain._ His ankle throbs and his muscles ache and he accidentally drank all his holy water, and now he suspects his blood might be turning to something colder and more permanent than ice; but if he complains, or whines or does anything other than drop down dead, Seungcheol will probably _gloat_.

And Jihoon simply _refuses_ to give him anything to gloat about.

They’ve been walking for the better part of the day when Seungcheol finally draws them to a halt in a small clearing, sheltered in the midst of several rock formations where the trees have thinned considerably and the underbrush is heavy. It’s a good position—hidden from view, protected from the wind, and with a good line of sight in all directions. Jihoon silently adds strategy and scouting to Seungcheol’s growing list of survival talents.

It’s becoming an annoyingly _long_ list.

“Here,” Seungcheol says, voice too loud in the stillness. “We’ll make camp here for the night.”

Jihoon nods and slumps down on the ground, stubbornly ignoring the wetness that soaks into his buckskins. He’s unwittingly sat in a great big puddle—he can _feel_ it, but he’s too tired to do a thing about it. Too tried to do anything but sit and watch as Seungcheol rolls out their bedrolls and fetches some wood, starting a fire with nothing but two rocks, some dry moss and the force of his _glare_. 

That too is a talent Jihoon hasn’t yet mastered, though not for lack of trying.

When Seungcheol begins rifling through his provisions for some food, Jihoon’s stomach grumbles knowingly, and he accepts the chunk of bread Seungcheol offers him eagerly. He manages a sizable bite, chewing with only a modicum more energy than before.

Seungcheol finds a drier place to sit down across from him and for a moment they eat in silence, trying to ignore the ever-present cold that still permeates the air.

“I’m cold. And wet.” Jihoon says suddenly, eyes on the rest of the bread roll in his hands.

Seungcheol levels him a questioning look over his own chunk of bread. “Have you considered _not_ sitting in that puddle?”

Jihoon tries to glare at him, but his teeth are chattering too much for it to be effective.

“I’m too tired to move.” He counters quietly. He might be whining a little, “And even if I did, the ground is wet _everywhere_.”

Taking another bite of his bread, Seungcheol chews slowly, arranging his words. “Well, this _is_ what you wanted, isn’t it? Sleeping on a dirty floor under the stars, fending off a bitterly cold wind. A life of danger. All the things I _deny_ you.”

Jihoon sniffs, haughty. “It’s not that I _truly_ despise those comforts Seungcheol, but if I remain a spoiled man of gentry forever, how can I ever expect you to take me seriously as a partner?”

Seungcheol frowns at him, reproving. “So making you sleep on a dirty floor and endangering your life needlessly would have been sufficient proof that I respect you, would it?”

Chastened, Jihoon looks away and holds his silence, cramming the rest of the roll in his mouth.

How can he answer that all he truly longs for is Seungcheol’s _approval_? That his pricked pride and his anger, that his fears of inadequacy have nothing to do with something as simple as their accommodations, but are driven by a desire to be indispensable—to impress the _one man_ sitting in front of him now?

After a moment of silence, Seungcheol sighs and tosses the rest of his bread into the fire.

“This isn’t the type of life you just _jump_ into Jihoon. My Father had been training me for this role for years without my knowledge—years of training and I am _still_ unprepared for the dangers I face. You have scarcely been at my side for three months and you already want to do everything I do. Can’t you see how foolish that is?”

Jihoon avoids Seungcheol’s sharp gaze, shrugging. “I suppose. But there are other things you have been sheltering me from. You promised to teach me how to fight—"

“And I _still_ intend to do that,” Seungcheol cuts in with a frustrated snarl, “But you know as well as I do that brute force is not always the answer. Sometimes observation is the key, and your intelligence and insight are your best strengths, skills far more valuable in any situation than how quickly you can shed blood. Look at Namjoon—he’s been doing this at least a decade longer than I, and many consider his combat skills unequalled, yet he is now out of commission and may never hunt again. With my skills, I will be lucky to be in service for half as long as he has, but _you_ —you could surpass us both with your ingenuity alone. You could be the best damn hunter out there, if only you could focus on how brilliant you already are instead of what little talents you lack.”

Jihoon blinks. He stares at Seungcheol, lamely, all of his built-up defences and rationalizations of his feelings from the last few week crumbling into pieces around him.

Seungcheol is right—there comes a point when bull-headed determination stops being enough, and you must step back and _strategize_ your way out of peril. Jihoon’s quite good at that, and it would serve them _both_ well to refine a skill that has saved their hides time and time again, rather than worrying about how quickly he can draw a pistol.

“You’re right Seungcheol, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so ungracious, it’s just, I wanted you to take me seriously, to be treated as your equal—but you already treat me with far more respect than any of my peers ever did. I suppose I forget that sometimes.” He murmurs, and blushes to hear how plaintive he sounds.

He expects Seungcheol to snort and wave him off, but the man just looks at him, fondly, as if Jihoon has hung the moon. Then, he gestures to a spot next to him and says, “Come rest here, there is a patch of dry ground under this tree.”

Pouting, Jihoon crawls over, settling himself a few feet away from Seungcheol. The ground is reasonably dry, but he’s still far colder than he’d like. Far, far colder than he’d be if he’d remained in town.

“I’m still cold.” He pouts.

A glance at Seungcheol reveals that he’s smiling—a tiny, amused thing that still manages to breathe some warmth into Jihoon’s chest and bones. Then he’s reaching out and dragging Jihoon half-way onto his lap, wrapping an arm around him, bracing and protective, “How’s that?”

Jihoon curls up against his side, smiling, feeling lighter than he has in days.

* * *

That feeling is quick to disappear once morning comes however, and they begin trekking once more.

The twinge in Jihoon’s ankle only seems to worsen with each step he takes, and it feels like just about every muscle in his body had seized beyond any use, like he is fast approaching a thousand years old.

It’s rather embarrassing actually, how terribly out of shape he is. He’s pushing himself as fast as he dares to go, but he’s barely keeping Seungcheol in his sight.

They stop again what feels like an eternity later, on the edge of a small copse of trees. It would be a perfectly adequate place to set up camp for the evening, except Seungcheol is still hanging on to his provisions like he intends to keep moving. 

Jihoon holds back a protesting whimper at the thought. He’s freezing and hungry and his ankle burns like the ninth circle of hell, and the effort of standing still is almost as unbearable as putting one foot in front of the other. If he sits now, he may never be able to get back up again, but if he doesn’t rest soon, he might actually _cry_.

Seungcheol’s big hand curling around the back of his neck pulls Jihoon’s attention away. He looks up at his friend and sees that familiar expression—all soft concern. “Everything alright?”

He almost says “of course” but then remembers that Seungcheol has always been able to see through him and admits, “I’m afraid I turned my ankle yesterday, and I’m rather feeling the effects of it now.”

Seungcheol makes a distressed sound and goes as if to examine the appendage, only to freeze mid crouch. Jihoon tenses too, and quickly scans their surroundings.

There are no signs of movement around them, but Seungcheol’s gone wary enough to warrant his silence—squinting through the trees and sniffing the air, senses tuned into everything and nothing at once.

In that moment, he reminds Jihoon of a hunting dog in its rookie season, and Jihoon is busy wondering how annoyed he’d be if he patted him on the head and enquired _‘What is it boy? What do you see?’_ when Seungcheol speaks up suddenly.

“Can you smell that?”

Sniffing the air enquiringly, Jihoon picks up a faint whiff of something up ahead. Something like charred wood.

“Fire?”

Straightening up, Seungcheol nods then tilts his head towards the smell of smoke drifting through the trees.

Jihoon falls into close step behind him as they move closer, towards the smell of smoke. There’s barely any foliage cover here the trees are so sparse, but it’s dark, somehow—like the day is beginning to die even though Jihoon’s pocket watch doesn’t even read past four.

Jihoon can’t tell where the smoke is coming from, but when they pass an ash tree that looks like a petrified femur sticking out of the ground, they suddenly find themselves standing in front of it.

A quaint wooden cabin, its little chimney pumping a solid column of smoke into the sky. _That_ probably should have been visible from quite the distance, but it wasn’t.

“Odd,” Seungcheol murmurs, looking at the cabin critically.

Jihoon tries to see what he sees, but he can only see a cosy little home and an opportunity to rest his ankle.

The cabin itself is a single story tall, positioned in the centre of a clearing where fencing surrounds a little garden amid monstrous trees. It’s large enough for a family of farmers yet nestled so snugly in the woods it could take years to clear enough ground for agriculture. The entire place is so isolated Jihoon can’t believe anyone actually lives here, until a bushy head of hair pops out from behind a bush.

“Well, hullo there—” Says a tall, dark haired man, with shoulders as broad as a carriage door, and a smile as bright as the midday sun. He’s handsome in that roguish way that is almost _familiar_. Not a patch on Seungcheol, of course, with his broody elegance and knowing charm, but handsome all the same.

“I didn’t expect my first guests to arrive so soon. I thought I’d have at least a few more months to prepare myself before the path was opened.”

Jihoon opens his mouth to speak, and finds he has no excuse at the ready. They usually have a cover story in place, in case people ask questions—but they didn’t bother to prepare one this time because they honestly never expected to stumble across another person this deep into the woods.

Thankfully Seungcheol is much more adept at lying and fills the silence with ease.

“We’re not travellers good sir, merely scouts sent by the Mayor. We’re just passing through to survey the land and hopefully establish a safer route before the trees are cleared.”

“Ah, well then—allow me to introduce myself. I’m Karl Krüger,” The man says, striding up to them with a hand extended. His face is practically glowing, teeth glistening as he pumps Seungcheol then Jihoon’s hand with vigorous dominance. “Welcome to my humble inn. It’s not much to look at now, but it should look fine and proper when the time comes. A decent place for the weary traveller to lay their head.”

Jihoon glances around, finding it very much to his liking already. “It’s a very fine establishment you’ve built for yourself. Is it just _you_ here?”

Karl’s amiable expression doesn’t waver, “Aye, for now. My dear wife and children are back in town, but they hope to join me soon, when the path is open for business.” He holds a hand out towards the open door, a welcoming gesture, “I’m afraid I don’t have much fine hospitality to offer at the moment, but you’re more than welcome to come into the warmth and join me for a spot of supper.”

Jihoon grins brightly, ecstatic at the offer of food and warmth, even if only for a few minutes—only for Seungcheol to trample all over it with his prudent practicality.

“You’re very kind Sir, but we have much work ahead of us and it wouldn’t be right for us to impinge on your hospitality so suddenly.”

“It’s no bother at all.” Karl waves him off affably. Then, without waiting from a response, he heads inside, leaving the cabin door wide open.

Staring up into Seungcheol’s eyes, Jihoon holds breath, repressing the childish, stupid urge to say _oh please, oh please, oh please, can we?_

He won’t argue if Seungcheol insists they refuse, but he honestly can’t see the harm in accepting Karl’s offer. The man’s voice and mannerisms have been open and relaxed so far, and his warm welcome seemed truly genuine. As far as Jihoon can tell, he isn’t hiding anything, and the cabin—well, it’s just that—a cabin. Wood and nail; not a whiff of Gingerbread in sight.

Some of that assessment must also be resonating in Seungcheol’s mind, as he shoots Jihoon a long-suffering look but backs down and follows his lead.

“After you.”

Gleeful, Jihoon darts in, feeling curious, a little tired and a bit hungry as well, and nearly weeps as he stumbles across the threshold into the warmth of the cabin.

It feels like _years_ since they left the Parsonage cellar and Jihoon is pleased to discern the cabin is just as warm and cosy as it looked on the outside.

It’s deceptively larger too, with a front room big enough to house two long dining tables in the centre, as well as a cosy [seating](https://64.media.tumblr.com/8008f0486bd70ec0cc75a12b277a9884/a57c0faeb20e6c54-26/s400x600/50358619848a13a210b1a6a5800df7f485dc46e9.jpg) area by the fireplace. Most of the furniture has a rustic look to it, with odd shapes carved into the chairs that frame the scrubbed wooded tables. It has a feel of comfort, of being lived in.

He wanders over to the window, aware that _something_ is missing, but not sure what.

If Seungcheol himself senses something amiss, he gives no indication, he merely latches the door behind him and sets his bag down by the door.

“Oh Seungcheol, isn’t this heavenly,” Jihoon whispers.

Seungcheol laughs under his breath in response and then they’re suddenly swept up into a flurry of activity as their kind host reappears, bearing blankets and warmed cider. When Jihoon is next fully aware, he’s sitting in fresh clothes in front of the fire with a bowl of stew in his lap and their host—Karl, if he remembers correctly—is fluttering around them, serving them perfectly sweetened tea and bread and freshly churned butter.

Yes, heaven, indeed.

Next to him, Seungcheol looks rather amusing nestled under a colourful quilted blanket and eats like he’ll never see food again. It’s a rather appalling lack of manners, even for a ruffian like Seungcheol, but he isn’t about to lay blame when it’s an effort to keep his own bites slow and measured.

This is the best stew he’s ever tasted in his life and Karl laughs when he tells him so, then ladles him out another bowl without asking, rattling on about how it’s his great, great, great grandmother’s recipe.

“How long have you been out here may I ask?” Seungcheol finally manages to ask, once Karl stops chattering for long enough to allow it.

Karl glances up at him, scratching his chin thoughtfully. 

“Oh, I can’t quite recall. Time seems to pass so slowly when you’re out here alone. But I’ve been building the cabin in stages over the years, and moved out here when they agreed on a path. I was a woodcutter in the village before this you see, and I always dreamed of owning an inn and running it with my wife. The new wine road would ensure a thriving business with all the travelers that will be passing through. My wife will take care of the guests and I’ll tend to the grounds. A simply living, but an honest one.”

Jihoon takes a bite of his bread, speaks through it. “Have you come across anything unusual out here? And dangers we should be aware of?”

A hint of caution creeps into Seungcheol’s expression, and he shoots Jihoon a quelling look, but Jihoon doesn’t think they’re in any danger of giving themselves away. Karl seems like an amiable character, and even if he weren’t, such a question would not be out of the realms of what a forest scout would ask. 

“Unusual dangers?” Karl purses his lips, thoughtful, and shakes his head. “I can’t say I have. The terrain poses the most danger if I’m being honest. And you might come across the odd pack of wolves or bears if you venture further east. But the wildlife here tends to shy away from folk, so as long as you travel during the day you should be safe enough. More tea?”

“Yes please.” Jihoon grins, holding out his mug.

* * *

Seungcheol’s not accustomed to accepting kindness from strangers—in fact, he’s generally suspicious of kind folk in general, but when Karl offers to make up one of the guest rooms for them to stay the night he doesn’t hesitate to accept. Night is falling, the shadows lengthening, and journeying any further wouldn’t be wise when they’re unfamiliar with the terrain. Besides, Jihoon’s ankle is clearly bothering him and another night on the hard-packed earth won’t do either of them any favours.

He very much doubts Karl’s the sort to try and slit their throats in their sleep anyway; the man’s clearly a bit of a simpleton, especially if he’s allowing two strangers with shoddy backstories into his home to share his food. Though Seungcheol will admit to being privately impressed that such a petite, willowy man was capable of erecting an entire cabin in the middle of the woods all by himself. He should know better than to underestimate anyone because of their size, Jihoon being a prime example. Come to think of it, there is somewhat of a resemblance between them; the lean frame, dark eyes and pretty petal pink li—

“It’s strange that he has this, don’t you think?” Jihoon’s question breaks through his musings and Seungcheol turns his head to find the man standing in front of an ornate, square shaped mirror hanging on the far wall.

“Why’s that? Is a man not permitted to appreciate his own reflection?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just an awfully _fancy_ piece to be mounted in such a place. The middle of the woods no less.” Jihoon answers flippantly.

Tipping his head, Seungcheol considers the mirror in question. It _is_ an incongruous piece of furniture to be sure, at odds with the bare walls, the rough stone fireplace, the uneven floorboards. From this angle he can see a great big crack in the corner, where the glass has desilvered and damaged beyond repair, but the frame looks heavy and is gilded in gold.

Clearly something worth of value then, if somewhat redundant in this modest home. The smart thing to do would be to have it melted down; simple gold may be less valuable, but it would be easier to transport and infinitely easier to trade with.

“It’s probably a family heirloom,” Seungcheol dismisses and gets to work unlacing his boots.

They’re caked in mud, so he sets them under the bed, then does the same with his bag once he removes his dagger and tucks it under his pillow. When he finally lies back and stretches out atop the covers, he’s perturbed to find Jihoon still standing in the same place, studying the mirror, eyebrows furrowed in more concentration than the gaudy monstrosity seems to warrant. 

As he watches, Jihoon leans in close, blinks twice, and then quickly glances over his shoulder, before slowly turning back towards the mirror, brows furrowed.

“What’s the matter Petal?” Seungcheol asks, unsurprised when Jihoon gives a jolt at being dragged back into the moment.

“Uh, nothing,” Jihoon's gaze leaves the mirror with obvious reluctance as he moves towards his own bed, “I guess I’m just tired.”

* * *

It is not yet morning when Seungcheol slips out of the cabin, the sky shading slowly from black to grey, turning the forest and its clean symmetry of trees into a dreamscape of soft corners and indistinct shapes. The morning air is cold, chilly, but Seungcheol welcomes it, drawing a breath into his lungs that feels more refreshing than a dip in cool water.

He’s glad to have accepted Karl’s offer of shelter, because it must’ve rained hard the night before. The leaves and soil making up the forest carpet are still cold and wet beneath Seungcheol’s boots, hardly making a sound as he rounds the cabin and breaks through the tree line.

The idle _tap tap_ of a woodpecker echoes somewhere overhead, a strange sound for this late in October, and when Seungcheol throws his eyes skyward to search for the tell-tale pinprick of red he can’t seems to pick it out of the foliage.

Odd.

Pulling out his compass, he heads northeast, half expecting Jihoon to pop out from behind a tree, or to come stumbling out after him, cursing and tugging on his britches. But it seems that months of constantly being on the move have finally caught up with his assistant, and the trek through the forest combined with the large meal last night compounded an exhaustion Seungcheol had previously only speculated on.

For once, there wasn’t so much as peep from Jihoon’s side of the room all night, and even when Seungcheol accidentally dropped his dagger as he attempted to dress in the dark, Jihoon had remained fast asleep, splayed out across the bed, doing his very best starfish impression.

Seungcheol had briefly considered giving him a gentle shake to inform him he was leaving, even contemplated writing him a quick note to assure him he would return soon enough, but ultimately decided against both.

It’s much safer for Jihoon to remain here while Seungcheol scouted ahead, and for once he doubts the man will find anything to complain about.

* * *

Jihoon is roused from sleep slowly, alerted by the rustle of cloth and the instinctive awareness of movement nearby, then, the feeling of a hand closing around his ankle, where the sheets have come untucked.

The heavy curtains block most of the light from straying into the room, making it difficult to discern the figure standing at the foot of the bed, but he can just about make out Seungcheol’s dark head of hair, his broad shoulders blocking the view of the doorway. 

Jihoon straightens his leg out a little, tugging affectionately against the grip, smiling as the fingers angle themselves to follow the movement accordingly, grip cool and firm.

“Can we not sleep a while longer?” He murmurs into the pillow, thinking of all the times Seungcheol has protested rising at a decent hour in the past.

There’s a quiet chuckle, then the grip around his ankle changes, tightening _painfully_.

Whining, Jihoon kicks back against the hold—but when he tries to jerk free, pain explodes from his ankle. 

“Ahh, Cheol, what are you doing?” He sobs, pushing himself upright to glare at his companion, only to find the room empty.

Taking a shallow breath in through his nose, Jihoon wrenches his gaze from the empty bed next to his to the closed door to the place he had thought Seungcheol had been standing, down on the end of the bed.

There’s no one there now, and the hand is gone from his ankle, but the swelling has returned and the joint throbs painfully, even _worse_ than before. The knowledge there in his mind that he must have been dreaming and the sound of Seungcheol leaving the room wakened him—this is, of course, the logical explanation for what just happened.

Nevertheless, he is a little spooked.

Dressing quickly, he hobbles his way down the corridor and into the main room and is immediately distracted by the generous breakfast spread laid on the table. There are eggs and bacon, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms as well as a fresh orange juice and tea. There’s a variety of pastries too, displayed in a small, lined wicker basket and the kitchen beyond exudes the heavenly scent of fresh bread.

Jihoon breathes it in, feeling a little twinge in his stomach.

“Ah good, you’re awake,” Karl chirps, emerging from kitchen with a freshly baked loaf, “And just in time for breakfast.”

Jihoon ducks his head sheepishly, “This is too much Karl, truly. You’ve already been so kind to us, I feel terrible taking advantage of your hospitality _again_.”

Karl waves him off with genial smile, “It’s no bother at all. It’s good practice for when we have our first guests. And you might as well sit down and have something to eat while you wait for your companion to return.”

“When did he leave?” Jihoon replies, feeling a frown forming despite his best efforts.

“Oh, I think I heard him slip out just before dawn. Eager to get back to his scouting I suppose.” Karl says, pulling out a chair for him.

Jihoon takes the seat, feeling something cold and razor-sharp welling up inside him. He has no _reason_ to feel nervous he tells himself; Seungcheol is eminently capable of taking care of himself, even in a foreign country. He’s just out scouting through the forest after all, not prowling through a den of cutthroats. But there is a worry settling deep in Jihoon’s gut, and he’s learned to listen to these sorts of worries.

“He’ll be back soon, I’m sure.” Karl cuts in, pouring him out a cup of tea, “How’s your ankle fairing?”

Jihoon glances up at him, surprised by the concern. He doesn’t even remember mentioning the injury to Karl, but Seungcheol must have.

“It’s—it’s much better, thank you.”

Karl gives him a squinty knowing look, like he knows Jihoon is underplaying it, “Well, just to be sure, I will prepare you a cup of White Willow Bark tea. My wife tells me it helps reduce swelling and she’s never wrong about these sort of things.”

“That would be wonderful, thank you,” Jihoon relents, feeling both touched and amused at Karl’s persistence.

* * *

Reaching a massive clearing where the sunlight breaks the trees, Seungcheol comes to a stop and leans against a rock. He needs a moment to rest, to think: two hours of trekking now – no, almost three – and he has nothing to show for it. Frustration is beginning to settle heavily in him, along with unwelcome doubts: has his compass failed him? Has he taken a wrong turn?

No. Seungcheol is fairly certain he never strayed from the proposed path. Yet, there has been no sign of anyone living out this far—no manual deforestation, no tracks in the dirt, no fucking Gingerbread house. For some inexplicable reason, he still feels on edge, starting at shadows, wondering if maybe the trees themselves are watching—eyes buried deep in their bark tracking everything that dares move through the forest.

Shuddering at the sharp, prickling sensation at the back of his neck, he pulls his collar up high even though he’s suddenly sweating inside his overcoat, enough that he has to fight the urge to strip it off to brea—

_“You’re going the wrong way.”_

Seungcheol starts at the whisper, whirling around, both hands on his rifle to steady his aim, and is just in time to catch sight of a bare foot disappearing behind a tree at the far end of the clearing.

Aiming his rifle at the tree warily for a moment, Seungcheol breathes as quietly as he can, hoping whoever it is will just present themselves. He’s alone and armed and isn’t going to hesitate for a damn second to shoot whatever he finds. But after a long drag of seconds, nobody steps out, and he is forced to move closer and call out, “I know you’re there—I saw you hide behind that tree.”

Laughter reaches his ears then, echoing and soft.

A _child’s_ laughter.

Seungcheol hesitates, trying to decide whether to put a bullet in the tree on principle; in his line of work, things often disguise themselves as children to garner the most sympathy, to catch a person off guard. But in the end, he can’t bring himself to do it. Poor judgment or not, he can’t hold a gun on what could potentially be a small, innocent child just because _he’s_ on edge.

Narrowing his eyes, he begins to approach the tree slowly, rifle lowered. The gun feels like a ten-pound weight in his right hand as he steps forward to peer behind the tree.

There’s nothing hiding there, only the smell of damp wood-rot and earth, nothing but leaves and the bark of the tree.

He steps back to look around the perimeter of the clearing, and when he does, another giggle floats to him through the still air, and he catches a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye.

Turning sharply, he just catches sight of a little towheaded girl in a blue dress, barefoot and giggling, before she dashes behind a tree.

“Hey, come back!” he tries, shouting even as he starts moving in that direction, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The only answer he receives is the crunch of his own footsteps and the girl’s high laughter, innocent and bright and completely out of place. She slips out of sight when he rounds the tree, and then again when he skids around another, until Seungcheol is madly weaving between the trees in what has to be the most infuriating game of hide and seek ever.

Seungcheol most definitely does not have the time for games, but he knows that letting a little girl run around out here on her own is a terrible idea. She could get hurt, or worse, and Seungcheol has decided he doesn’t want that on his conscience.

He returns to the centre of the clearing instead, to the rock where he left his bag, and rummages through it until he pulls out an apple.

“Look, as fun as this has been, I have places to be and I’m sure your parents are worried sick about you, so how about you come out and let me take you home.” He calls out, pushing as much lead and brass into his voice as he can manage. 

The silence that greets him is oppressive, enough that it feels like a hand pressing down on him, but he still can’t shake the feeling that he’s being watched. He turns in a slow circle, tension coiling through his body like a rusted wire, only to freeze at the sight of the little girl, peeking at him from behind a tree a few feet away. 

Her voice cuts through the silence.

“I can’t leave.”

“Why not?” Seungcheol croaks, watching his own breath bloom when it touches the cold air.

The girl draws her shoulders up, and then says quietly, “I just can’t. The forest won’t let me.”

Seungcheol doesn’t know what she means, but he’s certain it isn’t anything good. The wind is rustling through the trees now, but the hem of her blue dress doesn’t move an inch. Odd, he thinks, skin prickling with uncertainty, but he crouches down so that they’re almost at eye level, attempting to project a less menacing demeanour. 

“How about you come out and we’ll talk about it?”

She seems hesitant, still half hidden behind the tree, and Seungcheol half expects her to run away again. Then, in a very small voice, she says, “Will you be scared of me?”

“Of course not,” Seungcheol says, almost grinning at the very idea, because when he can just see the right side of her as she shuffles out of her hiding spot, she _looks_ normal—tiny and pale, dressed in tattered blue dress—until she turns fully towards him and he sees the other half of her face.

It’s…It’s…

God, it’s _horrific_.

The left side of her has been burned away, like something had pressed her face into a fire until the skin had thickened and bubbled and peeled away, exposing raw, slick muscle and white bone. Seungcheol can see the tendons that are holding her tiny blue eye in its socket, as well as the ones that work her jaw up and down as she says, “People run away when they look at me.”

Despite his horror, pity clogs Seungcheol’s chest at the sight and he holds the apple out in offering. She’s just a child after all, and she poses no threat, even if she’s quite dead and inhabiting the wrong plane of existence.

The girl smiles, sways back and forth once, and then hesitantly reaches for the apple. She doesn’t take a bite, just cradles its weight in her hands reverently.

Seungcheol’s throat tightens up, but he manages to push the words out in a hoarse whisper. “What happened?”

The girl shakes her head, curly pigtails bouncing from side to side. “It doesn’t matter,” She whispers. Her pale eyes glitter. “It’s too late for us anyway. But it’s not too late for your friend.”

_Jihoon_? Is Seungcheol’s first thought, though the second thought to surface is even more troubling. Dread cracks like a cold egg and slips tendrils of fear down the back of his neck and into his arms, making his feet shuffle forward a few steps on their own accord when the ice starts to bleed into his stomach.

“What—what do you mean by _us_?” He asks, just as a twig crunches behind him, close enough that chills light up like a rush of wildfire down his back.

He snaps his head towards the sound, whipcrack quick, reaching his rifle this time, and that’s when he sees them.

Children. _Hundreds_ of them. Peeking out from behind the trees in the clearing. They all appear to be of a similar age, though the clothing of some suggests they have been here far longer than others. And they’re all quite clearly, _long_ _dead_.

They don’t approach him or make a sound, but Seungcheol feels far from comfortable in that moment, confusion mingling with the still-fading panic.

It’s difficult to lower his rifle again, especially with the weight of the children’s eyes on him, but he manages somehow. He slings it over his shoulder, and then takes a step forward, hand held up. He gets not further than a single step before a small, cold hand wraps tight around his wrist and tugs.

_“No, you have to go back. You’re going the wrong way.”_

Seungcheol swings back around, skittish. But there’s no one there but a whisper; nothing wrapped around his wrist although the cold feeling remains. Panic seizes him again and he turns a fast circle, assessing, only to find the little girl has vanished, as have the other children.

Still, he can feel he’s not alone.

There's a thrum of expectation filling the space, a low shiver that winds through the empty air. Pivoting in the centre of the clearing, Seungcheol is abruptly aware of a quiet whisper at the outermost edges of his senses, so soft he could almost believe he's imagining it.

_“You left him with it.”_ The voice says, reed thin and inexplicably distorted, like it’s coming from every direction.

“What are you talking about?” Seungcheol says, swallowing against the unease rising in his throat like bile.

_“You left him behind in the cabin with it.”_ The whisper answers, and Seungcheol feels not just his heart, or his breath, but his very blood stop in his veins, as she says. _“You must hurry back. He doesn’t have much time. It has been so long, and it has grown so hungry. It will not wait this time.”_

* * *

After he polishes off his breakfast, Jihoon doesn't even have a chance to _think_ the words 'Now what?' before Karl is clearing the table and ushering him into a soft chair by the window.

Jihoon offers to help him with whatever chores he has planned for the day, but Karl is insistent he _rest_ his ankle, so Jihoon sits by the window and entertains himself with a bit of light reading until he notices Karl hauling firewood from a pre-cut stack in order to light a fire in the hearth. The cabin is too warm to require a fire, but when Jihoon points this out Karl keeps working with a smile—ultimately collecting a massive kettle of water from the well and hanging it over the newly crackling fire.

Bewildered but not especially curious, Jihoon returns to his reading, occasionally catching glimpses of Karl lugging the kettle down the corridor and returning with it empty. He’s midway through a chapter about Gossamer-winged butterflies when Karl pointedly clears his throat, interrupting him.

“Actually, there is something you could help me with, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course!” Jihoon smiles, setting his book aside.

He follows as Karl leads him down the corridor to a room he has had no occasion to inspect before. It turns out to be the water closet, a glory of porcelain and dark wooden cabinets. Glancing around the room, Jihoon spots a large bathtub in the corner, filled to the brim, and realizes exactly what Karl intends. Comprehension is accompanied by a pulse of pleasure.

The thought of a hot bath now is a welcome and unfathomably luxurious idea—so glorious Jihoon doesn't even mind that Karl all but shoves him inside the room.

“It’s never been used, but I thought perhaps you could try it and give me your thoughts.”

“I would—” love to, is what Jihoon intends to say, but he barely gets a chance to finish his sentence before Karl is stepping forward and working on the buttons of his shirt. _Undressing_ him by all accounts.

Jihoon watches on dumbly, gaping like a fish on a line before something in his mind snaps free and he takes a prudent step backwards, pulling away so that Karl’s fingers are left hovering in mid-air.

“Thank you, but I am perfectly capable of undressing myself,” He says firmly.

Karl looks surprised for a moment, and then his expression changes, hardens, seems to draw in on itself. He manages a smile, though his eyes have gone flat and dull, like unpolished gold coins.

“Of course. I’ll fetch you some towels.”

Jihoon watches him leave, to fetch the towels presumably, before slipping out and heading to his own room. He hadn’t thought he was nervous, but as he closes the door behind him, he feels tension that he hadn’t known had been building leave his body.

Something odd is brewing, he just knows.

Still, he feels rather a fool checking the hanging mirror in his room before he undresses, but is unaccountably relieved that it is removable, and there is nothing _concealed_ behind it. Like Karl for instance.

Another glance into the mirror as he wraps a dressing gown around himself determines something unusual however, something odd about the reflection of the room, something that sends a chill shuddering up the length of Jihoon’s spine and creeping down his arms. He furrows his brows as his eyes flick from side to side, examining the reflection of the room behind him.

The face of the mirror looks mostly clean, only a little dusty and water-spotted, and his own reflection is unremarkable, except for the lovely butterfly pendant hanging around his neck. But there, standing in the far end of the room, there is the shape of an indistinct figure.

He thinks that maybe it’s grinning at him, eyes wide and intent.

Then, the moment passes, and then next time Jihoon checks, there is nothing there.

Maybe all of that was just in his head, he assures himself. It’s clearly just a strange sort of visual illusion, that vanishes when he tilts his head the other way. And yet, all the same he cannot help but have a foreboding feeling of something terrible to come.

When he steps back into the corridor in his dressing gown, Karl is there, standing tall and straight, and staring at him too. Jihoon can feel the pressure of his gaze, and it makes him sweat a little. He turns and heads for the water-room, hoping the man won’t follow, but Karl continues to loom a short distance behind him, blocking the doorway even as Jihoon moves nearer to the tub and begins to disrobe.

“It’s uhm—it’s a bit hot.” Jihoon says, dipping a hand into the water experimentally. Which is a complete understatement, because the water is _boiling._

“It should cool soon enough.” Karl smiles at him, with all the deadly seriousness of a glacier.

Jihoon is certain he has gone about as pale as one.

Pretending to struggle with the knot of his dressing gown, he stares out the small window and prays desperately for Seungcheol to return quickly. Seungcheol would never make him have an uncomfortably hot bath—in fact, if Jihoon ever complained about the temperature of his bath water, Seungcheol probably invest in a special bath thermometer, so that Jihoon could have perfect temperature baths every time.

He’d probably punch Karl square in the face too—for being so _overbearing_.

Oh god, where is Seungcheol and his overprotective streak when you—

“Allow me,” Karl interrupts smartly, and Jihoon has to suppress a shudder as he feels the man press up against his back, hands snaking around his waist to untie the gown. The knot, already loose, comes apart in his hands easily, and much to Jihoon’s relief, Karl quickly steps away again to set the gown down by the basin.

He doesn’t linger in the room after that, but steps outside, leaving Jihoon to immerse himself in relative privacy.

Jihoon hisses through his teeth as he reluctantly sinks into the water, feeling his blood turn molten in his veins. It’s too hot—much too hot, and he takes half a dozen deep breaths, squeezing his eyes shut until the discomfort passes.

Just as his body is growing accustomed to the heat, Karl returns with a block of _something_ wrapped in brown butcher’s paper. The smell of cooking herbs and fat wafting off it is potent, and Jihoon resist the urge to wrinkle his nose as Karl sets it down on the lip of the tub. 

“What…what _is_ it?” He asks, eyeing Karl cautiously.

“Why it’s a bar of my wife’s homemade Rosemary soap, to cleanse and soften your supple skin. Doesn’t it smell wonderful?” Karl grins, leaning in to gauge Jihoon’s reaction.

Jihoon sniffs it approvingly, even though it most certainly does _not_. He may not be a master soap-maker, but he’s had his fair share of baths and likes to think he’s very familiar with the consistency and scent of soap, and this is _not_ soap.

It’s goose fat.

A slab of hardened rosemary infused goose fat.

Karl’s, the utter dimwit, has given him a slab of goose fat to wash with for some preposterous reason, and Jihoon has no choice but to use it now, lest he offend the simpleton. So Jihoon scoops a portion with his fingers and begins rubbing it into his arms, then his shoulders—and then because Karl is still watching, over his chest, pinching his lips tightly so he is not tempted to grimace in distaste.

“Be sure to slather yourself well with it. Do not leave an inch untouched.” Karl says, too bright and intent, and Jihoon wills his skin not to crawl. 

“Yes, thank you—I’ll be sure to do that.”

The second the man disappears down the corridor again, Jihoon levers himself out of the bathtub, (which proves more difficult than usual since he’s covered in goose fat), and tip toes over to the basin. He intends to fill the kettle with some colder water to add to the bath, only something catches the light filtering through the grubby windows, and shines like a spark.

Jihoon freezes, eyes scanning over the room for the source, but nothing stands out immediately. The only piece of furniture in the room is a small cupboard for the washing basin, and the handle is wooden, not metal. 

Finally, he hesitates and back-steps, until he can see the glint again; something shining up from between a crack in the floorboards.

When he stoops down to investigate, he finds a ring wedged tightly between the floorboards.

A simple, gold band, engraved with what he recognizes as the cross of wotan.

A wedding ring, he guesses—most likely Karl’s. Except on the inside of the band are the words: _To Lukas_ , and something else, hidden behind a heavy layer of…. dried blood.

The ring slips from Jihoon’s fingers, strikes the wood of the floor with a soft _ting_ , and rolls away beneath the cupboard.

He doesn’t bother to try and retrieve it, but the dread amassing in the pit of his stomach whispers ominously that something is not right. 

At the sound of approaching footsteps, he quickly and quietly slips back over to the bathtub and eases himself in. The water is even hotter now somehow, and almost unbearable, but he affects a look of contentment as Karl appears in the doorway, bearing a cup of tea.

“Some White Willow Bark tea—to help ease the swelling in your ankle.”

He holds the cup out for Jihoon to take instead of setting it down, then just stands there, as if waiting for Jihoon to take a sip. Jihoon casts his eyes around the room desperately searching for an excuse not to, anything to stave off sipping this dubious concoction, but Karl’s gaze has him pinned like a butterfly on a wall and—

Oh.

“Oh, ah, Karl,” Jihoon turns on a smile, reaching one hand behind his head to unclasp the butterfly pendant around his neck. “Would you be so kind as to place my pendant in the pocket of my dressing gown, I would hate for it to get wet and rust.”

Karl makes an impatient sound but agrees, holding a hand out to accept the pendant.

Jihoon’s earlier alarm returns as he glances down at the bathwater, first crawling and then slithering up his spine when he notices the man’s hand is not reflected in the water, but he’s careful not to react outwardly as he hands over the pendant.

Then, with the man’s back turned briefly, he carefully and quietly pours out the tea over the side of the tub and quickly refills the cup with bathwater, ensuring he’s taking his first big gulp as Karl turns to face him one more.

“Good?” Karl asks, practically grinning as Jihoon drains the entire cup in three swallows.

"It tastes a little odd, but I know the best medicine usual does." Jihoon says and is inwardly impressed by how steady his voice is.

* * *

It has been some time since Seungcheol has felt fear like this—deep and cold and all-consuming, a vicious, physical _thing_ clogging all the air in his lungs and turning his bones to lead.

His lungs burn. He gasps for air and wonders why his body cannot propel itself faster. He wonders at the limits of human frailty, at why he has been designed in precisely this useless fashion, where his body is being pushed to its limits, and the cabin seems no closer with each passing minute.

But the children are still whispering to him, assuring him it’s close by. That he just can’t _see_ it.

So he keeps running, because somewhere out there, Jihoon is currently facing the worst sort of monster with no backup. Seungcheol curls shaking fingers into fists. The fear is spiralling into panic, _terror._ Somewhere out there, Jihoon might be dead, dying—or _worse,_ there is so much worse that could happen, and Seungcheol has failed—failed completely and utterly to protect him like he _swore_ that he would and is this just one more person that he loves lost to death and chaos and—

When he does finally stumbles across it, it is merely by chance. 

He almost sprints right past it in fact, if it weren’t for two distinctly gnarled trees he passes—two trees with the exact same crack down the centre where lightening had struck them once. Only a second look, eyes sharpened by the unusual occurrence reveals something is not quite right about this particular stretch of woodland.

All the trees in the right hand side of the clearing are arranged in an oddly symmetrical pattern—a mirror image of the trees to his left. Even the manner in which the sunlight falls across them seems to bend unusually, like the light is refracting off an unseen surface.

Moving closer, Seungcheol raises a hand, spreading his fingers wide across the bark of the splintered tree to his right. Instead of roughened, splintered wood he feels a flowing coolness against his skin, as if there is air where he knew there isn't, or as if the tree might dissolve into the wind at any moment.

It’s an _illusion_ , he realises, and a clever one at that. A mirrored world that outwardly projects nothing but an empty clearing around it. Until he moves closer, through the veil of air and suddenly, the cabin he’d left earlier appears right in front of him. 

It looks the same, yet somehow darker than he remembers. Too damn dark for high noon with the sun burning somewhere just out of sight.

Stumbling more than walking up to the cabin, he slows down once he kicks in the door. The front room looks smells nothing like it did this morning—of freshly baked bread and dried, hanging herbs. In its place, the smell that greets him is cloying, thick; death hangs in the air and on the floor in front of the fireplace, the wood is stained _red_.

He can’t understand how he didn’t notice that before—but perhaps the illusion extends further than he realised, and it’s disintegrating now. Now that he knows it’s not real.

Karl is standing at the side of a waist-high table, introducing a knife to an onion with obvious consequences. He doesn’t even glance up when the door slams against the wall, he merely continues slicing the onion serenely.

“Where’s Jihoon?” Seungcheol asks, voice rough.

He receives no answer.

Tasting something sour, vile at the back of his throat, Seungcheol raises his rifle as he approaches the man, and says again, louder, “Where the fuck is Jihoon?”

The rifle makes an odd, crunching noise in his hand when he comes to a halt inches away from Karl, and Karl _laughs_.

The sound might have been pleasant in other circumstances; Karl’s voice has a lovely quality to it, much like Jihoon’s, bright and glistening for all that it carries an unmistakably mocking undertone.

Seungcheol is only confused by his amusement for a moment, until he tightens his finger on the barrel and realizes that the hard, cool metal of the gun has transformed to something soft beneath his fingers. His hand automatically clenches in startlement and there’s another crunch, followed by wetness that oozes out over his fingers.

Seungcheol stares down at the apple that has suddenly appeared in his hand in shock, wondering where the hell his rifle has gone, then sucks in a quiet breath as the man finally lifts his head to acknowledge him.

The man's eyes. . . _shine_ , lit from within by some unknown power, like golden fire. "The dashing prince returns. How... delightful.” He curls his lip with a sniffing gesture and then smiles. “But you’re too late. As you can already smell, I’ve turned him into a lovely, meaty _stew_."

Seungcheol feels sick. Sicker than he has ever felt before.

He swallows hard and grinds his teeth together. "You fucking asshole..." and draws his dagger without thought, rage giving him courage.

But before he can make another move, Karl cocks a condescending eyebrow at him and lifts his hand, folds his fingers into his palm and with a little twist of the wrist—Seungcheol feels as though something has grabbed hold of his heart and is hoisting him up by it. At the same time, he feels himself being driven to his knees, and the pain of being pulled in two different directions makes him catch his breath as he sinks down to the dusty floor.

"I prefer unsoiled flesh," Karl says, as he pulls his hand back into a striking position. He opens his mouth in a hiss. “But I think I may be hungry enough to eat you too.”

The sound of a yell ripping its way out from someone's throat erupts into the room and Karl whips his head around to see what is making that noise. Just then, Jihoon bursts out of the shadows bellowing like a bull, wearing a dressing gown and brandishing what appears to be the ornate mirror from their room.

He charges at Karl like a locomotive, bringing the mirror down over his head with crippling impact.

Seungcheol’s pretty sure it should have no effect over whatever _creature_ Karl is, but Karl opens his mouth in a deafening scream.

There is a second’s breathless pause, and then implausibly, Karl’s body seems to explode into dust, shimmering for a moment in the air, before falling to the ground.

The second Seungcheol feels the invisible force release him, he clambers to his feet and rushes forward, catching Jihoon by the shoulders. “Fuck, are you okay? Did he hurt you? I’m so sorry I left you with it—I came back as fast as I could when I realised what I’d done.” 

Jihoon looks at him, dark eyes startled and huge in his usually sharp face, then the fear and tension leave him and he collapses, like a puppet whose strings are cut.

Seungcheol gathers him close as he sinks to the floor, hands shaking as he caresses his back in a way he hopes is soothing and finds himself uneasily reminded of their first time surviving together, Jihoon in his arms after they both almost died in Weerus Manor.

Except, this time—

“Why are you covered in goose fat?”

* * *

Jihoon does his best to wash as much of the goose fat from his skin as he can by a little stream they find nearby, but the waters too cold to break through the grease so he’s mostly just smearing it about and growing increasingly frustrated. He’ll have to a have a real bath when he gets back to town, with _real_ soap this time. Preferably nothing with rosemary.

At least the weather has improved; the sun’s shining high above and the scent of pine wafts over them, even cutting through the smell of the burning wreck of the cabin nearby.

Seungcheol is perched on a rock behind him, rolling a few pebbles between his fingers. He still looks shell-shocked, and Jihoon doesn’t really know what to say to make it better. Instead, he sits down next to him and digs a hand in his pocket, working out the flask he knows Seungcheol keeps there.

He expects gin and gets brandy, but at least it’s strong. He doesn’t often celebrate a successful hunt the way Seungcheol does—alcohol joins poorly with his focus and his studies—but today he’s making an exception, and the burn on his tongue is almost comforting. He takes another slow pull, letting the alcohol absorb through his mouth, and looks out across the river with his elbows on his knees and the flask dangling from his fingers. 

“I don’t get it. Why wasn’t it made of gingerbread? Why wasn’t he an old woman?” Seungcheol says finally.

Jihoon closed his eyes and breathed deeply, squaring his shoulders. “Because we weren’t starving children. We were weary travelers who wanted a place to rest the night. Karl, or the _entity_ manipulates itself and its surroundings to resemble what we desire most—”

Seungcheol sits up straighter, “So that’s why the twins could never agree on a description of the old woman. They each perceived her differently.”

“Exactly,” Jihoon smiles, capping the flask. He slips it back into Seungcheol’s pocket before continuing, “Hansel saw his doting grandmother and Gretel saw the kindly old lady that cared for her. We too saw what we wished to see. A cosy inn to rest our heads and a kindly, ruggedly handsome innkeeper.”

“Ruggedly handsome?” Seungcheol screws up his nose, “He could hardly be classed as ruggedly handsome. He was very petite, with a very pretty face. In fact, he reminded me a little of—"

He trails off then, eyes widening. He ducks his head, throat working around an awkward swallow. Words probably, something he means to say and then doesn't. Instead, he clears his throat and quickly diverts the topic, “When did you realise something was off?”

Jihoon glances up at the sun now bright in the cloudless sky. “Something bothered me when we first came upon the place, but I couldn’t put my finger on what. It was only when I was lounging in the bath, lathering my skin with goose fat that I thought—where are all the animals? He served us fresh milk and freshly churned butter and eggs, and yet, there was no farm—no animals to be seen. The bird I spotted outside the window, was the very same bird I spotted the day before, in the exact same place. And the chimney smoke should have been visible a good distance away, and yet I only noticed it the moment we came across the cabin. The illusion was clever, but incomplete. I’m almost embarrassed I didn’t notice it all before, but I suppose I was tired and hungry and saw what I wanted in that moment.”

Seungcheol says nothing for a long second. His eyes are downcast.

“And the mirror? How did you know that was the vessel?”

Jihoon shrugs, “Well, for starters, it was older than everything else in that cabin, and I couldn’t understand how something that ornate could being in the possession of a humble innkeeper, regardless of how cracked and damaged it was. Then, last night, I was certain I’d seen something reflected in it—something that wasn’t in the room at the time. I put it down to exhaustion, making me see things. But the _real_ clue came when Karl was leaning over me in the bathtub—”

“I’m sorry, what? He was watching you _bathe_?” Seungcheol spits out. His hands are fists clenched on top of his thighs and his gaze is fire. He’s furious and practically frothing at the mouth, like he would very much like to bring Karl back to life to kill him all over again.

Jihoon chokes out a laugh despite himself.

“Yes, he was _very_ overbearing once we were alone, forcing me to bathe in water that was far too hot and making me rub goose fat into my skin like it was soap. He even tried to get me to drink a cup of this foul smelling tea that he claimed would reduce the swelling in my ankle, but I was already suspicious of him by that point, so was careful not to drink it. Anyway—when he leant over me, I noticed his image wasn’t reflected in the water. That’s when I knew he was just some kind of illusion, and that the real entity must be residing in the mirror. But with you absent, I had to tread carefully—so I pretended to drink the tea and played dead as I planned my next move. I was in the middle of climbing out the back window when I heard you barge in through the front door like a mad man. Which begs the question, what on _earth_ were you thinking? I thought you possessed more stealth than that?”

Frowning, Seungcheol looks down, bites his lip, but then looks back up again to meet Jihoon’s eyes, “I acted rashly I’ll admit, but I’m afraid all reasonable thought flew right out of my head the moment I realised I’d left you behind with the very thing we set out to hunt. All I could think about was getting back to you as quickly as possible. I didn’t have the sense to formulate a plan.”

Jihoon tries to contain his eye-rolling, fond as it is.

Seungcheol’s like a faithful puppy with sharp teeth and a big knife, the one you can send for help when you’ve fallen down a horribly deep well, and you know he’ll find a way to get you out even if it means leaping into the darkness after you because faithful puppies aren’t always the smartest creatures.

Still— _puppies_. Jihoon is terribly fond of large puppies, and Seungcheol is the largest of them all.

“Well, perhaps you’ll think twice about leaving me behind again.” He snorts, almost reflexively.

It is perhaps the wrong thing to say, even if Jihoon meant it lightly. Seungcheol’s shoulders slump, no more than a hair, but a slump of _defeat_ nonetheless. 

“I know, I’m..I’m sorry Jihoon, I should have never left you behind. If anything had have happened to you, I wouldn’t never have forgiven myself.”

Jihoon tears his eyes from Seungcheol and swallows his unpardonably sappy thoughts. He can't seem to muster any self-righteousness to replace them however, not when Seungcheol looks so utterly miserable. Not when he knows just how _loathe_ the man is to subject him to avoidable danger.

“Oh, cheer up,” He giggles instead, nudging Seungcheol with his elbow playfully, “I was only teasing. It all worked out in the end, you returned at precisely the right time to provide the perfect distraction, and I honestly can’t imagine another scenario where we could have escaped the entity unscathed. Though, you still haven’t told me how you _knew_ to return.”

Seungcheol lifts his head slowly, drawing in a lopsided sort of breath as his eyes dart between the trees.

“The ghost children warned me.”

“Ghost children!” Jihoon echoes, feeling as jumpy as a rabbit in a fox den. “What ghost children? Where are they? Are they here now?”

It seems patently ridiculous to grow fearful now, not after he has stared death in the face countless times, was nearly devoured by a dark, malevolent entity and nearly lost his soul to his Uncle’s rotting corpse. But the very thought of a _Child_ Ghost leaves his skin crawling unbearably, and he has to clutch at Seungcheol’s arm to ground himself.

Ghost Children is where he draws the line. No thank you.

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything at first, just chuckles and reaches down to rifle through his bag and fetch a few pieces of fruit. He sets them down on the rock above his head as he stands.

“Come. We only have a few hours of light left, at best, but it might be wise to at least put some distance between ourselves and…this place.”

Jihoon hums in agreement and gets to his feet—slow, mindful of his ankle. He has a cravat wrapped around it, but he doubts it will provide much support when they begin to traverse rockier terrain.

It’s better than nothing at least. Except, he gets no further than a few awkward steps before Seungcheol’s bending, tipping him over his shoulder, lifting him up and slinging an arm around the backs of his knees.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” Jihoon says, glaring at Seungcheol’s back.

Seungcheol lets out a half-laugh, and pats him on the thigh. “Wouldn’t you prefer it if we returned to town in one day instead of two?”

Jihoon makes a muffled sound against his back, mildly incredulous, but otherwise holds his peace.

* * *

Jihoon’s soaking in the tub when Seungcheol steps in from the cold, humming quietly to himself as he runs a washcloth over his skin. He’d talked Seungcheol’s ear off their entire journey back, about how he would dearly love a hot bath when they returned, with _real_ soap, and Seungcheol went to great pains to ensure he had one, ferrying buckets of boiled water down from the parsonage kitchen to fill the large copper tub in the cellar. 

It was an exhausting task to complete when he had already been sincerely exhausted in the first place, but it’s a small price to pay when Jihoon’s _this_ happy. Splashing about, wiggling his toes in the water, singing to himself and levering one leg over the rim of the tub to—

Christ on a bike! Did he not hear Seungcheol enter?

“How are you feeling?” Seungcheol blurts out, before Jihoon can unwittingly expose _more_ of himself.

Yelping, Jihoon pulls his leg back into the tub with a splash.

“Oh, uhm—much better. Thank you Seungcheol.” He hesitates, seeming almost embarrassed as he catches Seungcheol’s eye upon him, then swallows and continues. “The…the water’s still hot, if you want to bathe too.”

That _does_ sound like a fine idea. Seungcheol was planning on delaying his bath till the morning, but the thought of slipping between clean sheets when he’s covered in three days’ worth of dirt and grime suddenly doesn’t seem very appealing. Regardless of how tired he is, he would welcome a hot bath.

“Well,” He says, jerking his chin at Jihoon, “Are you going to get out and let me have my turn?”

“I’m not finished yet,” Jihoon pouts adorably. Then cautiously, as if he’s testing the words even as he says them, he offers, “But there’s plenty of room for _both_ of us. If you like.”

Seungcheol’s heart stutters at the thought. He looks at Jihoon, taking in the dark fan of his lashes on his hectic red cheeks, the wild mess of his hair, the way his collarbone stands out in relief against his lean shoulders and strongly considers his options. 

There are things he _should_ be doing. Numerous things. Letters to write and provisions to purchase and bills to settle before they move on. Above all, he should ponder the impropriety of such an act. The tub is certainly large enough to accommodate them both, but is it really wise to share a bath with his assistant? In a parsonage cellar no less.

_‘Why the hell not?’_ Seungcheol thinks carelessly, unbuckling his belt and shucking off his jacket.

The shirt underneath is simple cotton, damp with sweat and still faintly gritty with the dust of the road. He makes a face as he pulls it over his head, and when he drops it to the floor, there’s a quiet, yet sharp intake of breath from the tub that gives him pause.

Jihoon is watching him undress, he notes, gaze lingering on his chest far longer than could be considered innocent.

At first, Seungcheol can’t understand what’s fascinating him so; he spent much of his teenage years in a boarding school and had a brief stint in the military, so he is no stranger to being naked around other men. But this must be Jihoon’s first time to see a naked body besides his own, because the man can’t quite seem to conceal his interest. To his credit, he is only the faintest bit pink around the ears, but his gaze is heavy and unabashed; a palpable weight that sends heat flaring through Seungcheol’s belly as his dick tightens in anticipation.

Smirking, Seungcheol arches his back, showing himself to his best advantage as he toes his boots and socks off and then, ever so slowly, pushes his britches down his hips.

There is a further _three_ sharp inhalations from that action alone, then when the material pools at Seungcheol’s feet and he kicks it away, there’s an honest to god _gasp_. Jihoon is outright gawping at him now, staring at his cock with impossibly wide eyes as his hands clutch at the soap bar tightly.

Seungcheol titters at his own shamelessness; he is perhaps, enjoying the attention a little _too_ much.

“Do you plan on making room for me, or would you prefer to stare a while longer?” He says, sliding Jihoon a sly look. It isn’t that he's never stood around talking with his half-hard prick hanging out, because he has, but it isn't his favourite thing in the world.

There is a perfect moment of silence between them, where Seungcheol stares, brow quirked, and Jihoon gapes at him, eyes wide. Then the bar of soap flies out of Jihoon’s clenched fists and smacks him square in the forehead and Seungcheol bursts out laughing.

“Very funny,” Jihoon says, grouchily, scrambling around in the water in search of the soap with one hand, rubbing his forehead with the other.

A flush is spreading on his cheeks, embarrassment, maybe anger at being so obvious with his interest. Regardless, he gamely makes room at the foot of the tub for Seungcheol to slide in, and Seungcheol eases himself down with a satisfying groan.

The water is perfect, just this side of too hot; Seungcheol lets his eyes slide shut as he relaxes into it, letting the hot water ease his tired muscles. When he cracks his eyes open again, Jihoon is leaning back in almost the same position as him, studying him, eyes half-lidded, all annoyance and embarrassment gone. 

The flush on his skin is more obvious from the new angle, and more enticing, and on a whim Seungcheol reaches down to grasp the foot floating next his knee, gives it an affectionate squeeze.

Jihoon quirks an eyebrow at him, but is seemingly too tired to object. If anything, he pushes his foot into the grip, smiling as Seungcheol rubs absently at his sore ankle, where a line of faint, finger shaped bruises have appeared. 

Staring at them, possessiveness and a surge of anger speed his pulse, but Seungcheol only has a moment to fret before Jihoon is nudging his other foot against his knee, jerking him out of his thoughts.

“Do you still intend to spank me when we return?”

Seungcheol's brow furrows and there is caution in his answer. “I hardly think _that’s_ on the cards anymore. You nearly died Jihoon—It would be terribly cruel of me to inflict such punishment after you’ve been through that ordeal. I was planning on spoiling you instead.”

“Yes, I should think so,” Jihoon murmurs, though his face is a strange mix of disappointment and deliberation, and Seungcheol’s heart stutters at the sight.

Is.…is he upset?

Is he disappointed that Seungcheol isn’t planning on _spanking_ him?

Hope stirs in Seungcheol’s chest, and he blurts out, surprising himself, “But perhaps I will spank you anyway—so that I man remain a man of my word.”

Jihoon laughs, an unexpected sound of delight. He himself has clearly been unprepared for that, as he looks shocked at Seungcheol’s daring. “Yes, well,” He clears his throat, blushing sweetly, “It _is_ important to keep your promises.”

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I really love this Universe, so I have expanded on it....though I'm already feeling the strain of blue balls :(  
> 2) Thank you to Nadja, who was a lovely soundboard when I needed to test my plot thoughts on someone. Bless you :))  
> 3) If anyone has any thoughts on what they could hunt next, or where, please let me know. I seem to stumble across ideas and I have yet to stumble across another.  
> Hope you enjoyed reading! :))


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